


Bloodstains and Innocence: A Clarke Griffin Mystery

by HawthorneWhisperer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-15 06:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7212008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawthorneWhisperer/pseuds/HawthorneWhisperer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Police Chief Clarke Griffin knows three things:</p><p>1) Charles Pike is dead.</p><p>2) Octavia Blake is the prime suspect.  </p><p>3) Bellamy Blake a giant pain in the ass with no business being involved in a murder investigation, and yet here he is, working the case alongside her.</p><p>A hurricane is approaching the sleepy little island of Arkadia, NC as evidence begins to mount against Octavia and Clarke wrestles with her increasingly complicated relationship with Bellamy, all while trying to answer one simple question:</p><p>Who killed Charles Pike?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

  
  


Clarke rounded the bend along the shore, her grey-shingled house coming into view in the distance.  The sun was just coming up and starting to burn off the early morning fog, painting the cloudy sky a soft pink.  The waves were small, with no sign of the approaching hurricane the forecasters were so worried about, but the air had a definite bite of fall.  She kicked up her pace for the last quarter mile, relishing the burn in her muscles.  Running on the beach was hell on her shins and ankles, but she always finished her route this way.  Nothing beat the view, with the bay spread out to one side and the rolling dunes to the other.  It had taken her years, but she finally understood why her parents had chosen to live on this tiny island off the coast of North Carolina.  It was isolated, but it was home. 

She checked her watch as she reached house, frowning at the time.  She was two minutes slower than usual, even though she prided herself on being able to keep the same grueling pace morning after morning.  The slow time was probably thanks to a combination of exhaustion and her mind being preoccupied, but it still bothered her.  Sweat dripped into her eyes and she blinked it out, images of Pike’s body flashing behind her eyelids as she did.

Evidence of a long, vicious fight had been scattered throughout his home.  The couch was overturned, books spilled onto the ground, lamps and vases smashed into hundreds of pieces.  Pike had died in the middle of his living room, his body in a pool of rapidly congealing blood, his eyes open and sightless.

One of her steadiest deputies was dead, and Octavia Blake was a murderer.

Clarke still couldn’t get her mind around that— Octavia had been a little wild when they were teenagers, but she had settled down these past few years.  She and Lincoln lived above his aunt’s diner, and Octavia taught classes at the local gym (Clarke had taken both her yoga and her kickboxing classes, although she preferred the kickboxing one) while Lincoln sold his paintings and sculptures to tourists and Indra ran the diner.  To Clarke, it seemed like they had the perfect life— quiet, but happy.

Except Lincoln was now doing ten to fifteen on the mainland for drug trafficking, and Octavia was the prime suspect in the murder of the man who sent him there.

Clarke untied her shoelace to remove her key.  She entered through the sliding doors on the porch, bypassing the usual route through her foyer and going straight to the kitchen.  She pulled her earbuds out, the music tinny as she filled up a glass of water.

She was halfway through the glass when she heard it— a rustle coming from her living room.  Clarke froze, her cop instincts going into overdrive.  Only two people had a key to her place, and Wells was living in Raleigh with a fancy new job in the District Attorney’s office and her mother would be at the hospital by now.  Marcus was a possibility, but it wasn’t like him to borrow Abby’s key and come over unannounced at six in the morning.  Silently, Clarke moved to her entryway and found her sidearm, easing it out of the holster.  She heard the noise again— a rustle, like the turning of a page— and she stole down the hall, gun raised in front of her.

She burst around the corner and honestly, she would have preferred a burglar or murderer.  Because there, sitting on her couch and reading the newspaper like he did it every day, was Bellamy Blake.

He looked up with a dangerous smirk.  “I would have assumed the chief of police would have a better security system than a hide-a-key rock,” he said.  He folded the newspaper— her newspaper, actually— and set in on the coffee table, looking for all the world like this was his house and not hers.

Clarke sighed and clicked the safety back on.  “I would have assumed someone breaking and entering a cop’s house would be a little more wary of getting their head blown off,” she grumbled.  “What the hell are you doing here, Blake?”  She hadn’t seen him since he left for college over a decade ago.  Octavia preferred to visit him in DC for holidays, and Clarke was reasonably sure he hadn’t set foot on the island since his mother’s funeral.

Bellamy tipped his head to the side and threw his arm over the back of her couch.  “You know why I’m here.”

“It looks bad for her,” Clarke replied.  “She was found with the body, holding the murder weapon.”

“She didn’t do it,” Bellamy said flatly.  “I know my sister.  This isn’t her.”

“She publicly threatened to kill him the day before the murder,” Clarke countered.  Clarke herself had intervened in that fight in the parking lot of the station.  Pike had just arrived for his night shift and Octavia stopped him to ask if he would write to the judge and recant his testimony about the arrest.  When Pike refused, Octavia exploded.  Clarke had to hold a red-faced and shouting Octavia back from hitting the officer while Pike calmly reminded Octavia that without enforcement, the island would become a haven for drug smugglers and he’d be damned if he let that happen.   _ Drug runners like him deserve to rot in jail, _  Pike had concluded, and it was like a switch flipped inside of Octavia.  She stopped thrashing against Clarke’s arms and went eerily still.   _ I’ll kill you,  _ she vowed.   _ I’ll kill you. _

She tore herself from Clarke’s hold and stormed off, but Clarke hadn’t taken Octavia’s threat seriously.  The younger Blake had a famous temper and Clarke never imagined she would follow through— she was angry, but she wasn’t a murderer.  Or so Clarke thought until she saw Pike’s body, bloody and broken.  Maybe if Clarke had arrested Octavia the day before, maybe if she’d taken the threat for what it was, Pike would still be alive.  Clarke had never really liked him, but he didn’t deserve to die like that.  No one did.

“There’s another explanation.  I know there is,” Bellamy insisted.

Clarke sighed and wiped at her forehead in frustration.  She wished she wasn’t doing this soaked in sweat, wearing her ratty old UNC t-shirt and sweatpants that were in all honesty probably Lexa’s, given the way they stretched tight across her hips.  She turned on her heel and walked back to the kitchen to get her water.  “She has a motive,” Clarke said, trying to reason with Bellamy as he followed close on her heels.  “She has a motive and she was found with the body.  If there’s another explanation—”

“There is,” he interjected.

She sighed again.  “If there’s another explanation, I’ll find it.  We’ll be thorough.”

“Yeah?  Like you guys were with Lincoln?”

“He was driving a stolen car with a trunk full of heroin.”

“Tristan set him up and you know it.”

Clarke closed her eyes and drained the rest of the water in three gulps.  She was clearly not getting rid of Bellamy any time soon, and if she didn’t stretch she’d be regretting it for days.  “There was nothing I could do.  It was a clean arrest, and he had a record.”

Bellamy scoffed.  “Yeah, a possession charge from when he was nineteen.  He wasn’t exactly a hardened criminal.”

Clarke sat down and folded her left leg in, reaching out to grab her right foot and stretching her hamstring with a grimace.  “I know,” she said, trying for soothing but only sounding more annoyed.  “That’s why I testified on his behalf during sentencing.  I did what I could, but it was a clean arrest, and between a DA making a name for herself by being tough on crime and mandatory minimums...there wasn’t much we could do.”  

Lincoln’s arrest had thrown the department into an uproar, with Pike adamantly standing behind his arrest and much of the rest of the force feeling like their hands were tied.  The facts were undeniable: Lincoln was alone in a car that had been reported stolen three days earlier on the mainland and had several kilos of heroin in the trunk.  Clarke believed Lincoln’s explanation that his cousin Tristan had asked him to drive his car off the island, and the fact that Tristan disappeared shortly after Lincoln’s arrest only solidified her belief that Lincoln had been set up.  But try as she might, she couldn’t find any direct evidence beyond Lincoln’s word, and his subsequent conviction left her feeling beyond helpless.

Bellamy rolled his eyes.  “Right, because black men always get fair trials in this country.”

“What are you doing here?” Clarke asked, switching legs to stretch her left side and trying to steer the conversation back into calmer waters.

Bellamy crossed his arms and leaned his hip against her kitchen counter.  “I came for the sparkling conversation and the warm welcome,” he sneered.

Clarke took a deep breath, a tactic she had ironically learned from Octavia in yoga.  (Or maybe it wasn’t ironic— Clarke majored in criminal justice, not English.)  Bellamy had always been like this, especially with her.  He hadn’t been quiet about his opinions on her family in high school, holding her personally responsible for the class divisions in Arkadia any chance he got.  And apparently, not much had changed since then.  

“You clearly drove all night to get here,” Clarke tried again.  Despite his arrogant attitude, she could sense a hint of desperation underneath.  There were bags under his eyes and the way he was drumming his fingers suggested entirely too much caffeine in too short a time.  “You didn’t do that just to tell me what I already assumed, which is that you are siding with your sister.”

“There’s no sides here.  She’s innocent.”

Clarke stood and stepped towards him but he didn’t back down.  “What do you want from me, Bellamy?”

He blew out a breath between his teeth.  “I want to work this case with you.”

Clarke laughed.  “You’re a museum curator and the brother of the prime suspect.  No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” she said again.  “You have no skills, you’ve got a bias, and most importantly, you have no legal authority to investigate this crime.  No.”

“I’ll be investigating it whether you let me work with you or not,” Bellamy countered.  “I’m giving you the chance to work it with me.”

“With you?” she scoffed.  “I repeat: you’re a museum curator.  No.”

They stared at each other, Bellamy in his blue flannel and Clarke in her running gear, until she sighed.  She knew how stubborn the Blakes could be, and if she let him tag along with her at least she could keep him safe.  If Octavia was guilty he wouldn’t be in danger, but if she wasn’t— well, Clarke had seen Pike’s house.  Whoever did that was dangerous, and Bellamy, for all his tough talk, was still the boy who swam out to get her the time she got caught in a riptide.  (She was twelve and he was fourteen, and he’d wrapped her in his towel and rubbed her back while she shook with fright until her parents arrived.)  For that reason and that reason alone, she relented.  “Whatever.  I have to shower before work.  Don’t touch anything,” she said, and pounded up the stairs without looking back.

Bellamy was sitting back on her couch reading the newspaper when she came downstairs.  A mug of coffee was steaming near his elbow, the coffeemaker gurgling softly from the kitchen.  “I told you not to touch anything,” she griped.

“I made enough for both of us,” he said without looking up.

Clarke sighed in exasperation — she would be doing that a lot in the near future, she surmised— and poured the rest of the pot into her enormous travel mug.  Her phone rang,  _ unknown number  _ flashing at her like a taunt.  She hit ignore and shoved her phone into her back pocket.

“You’re not going to eat breakfast?” Bellamy asked when she went back to the entryway to get her holster and keys.

“I never eat breakfast,” Clarke replied as she laced up her boots.

A banana appeared in front of her, clasped in Bellamy’s hand.  “I don’t want you making a mistake because your blood sugar’s low,” he said, and with one last sigh she snatched it from him and headed to her car.

* * *

 

Miller and Harper were at their desks when they arrived, mountains of paperwork stacked in front of them.  Miller had discovered Pike’s body last night when the elder man didn’t show up for his night shift.  Pike wasn’t answering his phone, and it wasn’t like the fastidious deputy to be an hour late without a call, so Miller had driven over to see what was wrong.

That was when he found Octavia standing over Pike’s body, a bloody machete in her hand.  

“Any luck so far?” Clarke asked Miller as she shrugged out of her jacket.  

Miller shook his head without looking  up.  “I’ve been calling everyone I can think of, but no one either knows where she is or they won’t cop to it,” he said.  In the background, Diana Sydney’s gubernatorial campaign ad droned on about the threat drug smuggling posed to the state, static cutting in every few words.  Clarke hated that voice, dredging up memories of sitting in court listening to Sydney decimate Lincoln’s character and feeling powerless to stop it.   _ Vote Sydney and Shumway: Safety and Security for a Better Tomorrow _ , the ad declared, and Clarke switched the radio off.

“She’s not on the island,” Bellamy said, and Miller startled.  “She called to tell me she was okay,” he clarified.

“Yeah, um...Bellamy’s here,” Clarke said a little belatedly.  “We’re gonna have to take his statement.”

Miller leapt out of his chair to hug his friend.  “When did you get in?” he asked with a very unprofessional grin.

“Just now,” Bellamy said, waving at Harper who happily waved back.

“I thought you were never coming back to this godforsaken rock,” Miller said.

“Yeah well, it turns out my sister being accused of murder is what it takes to get me back here.”

“Harper, do you have the recorder?”  Clarke interrupted.

“Right here, boss,” she said, holding it up.

“Okay, Bellamy— meet me in the interview room.”

“Am I a suspect?”

_ Jesus Christ he was annoying.  _  “No.  I just have to take an official statement since Octavia reached out to you.”

“When do I get to see the evidence?”

“After I take your statement,” Clarke replied through gritted teeth.

Bellamy finally turned towards the interview room— they only had the one, plus a few small holding cells that were rarely occupied— and Clarke focused her attention back on her deputies.  “How are you holding up?” she asked.  None of them were particularly close to Pike, but he was one of their own.  And Clarke was reasonably sure Harper and Miller had only ever seen one dead body before when a tourist wrapped his car around a tree two summers ago, so she was worried.  They’d seemed okay last night, but still.  She worried.  She couldn't help it.

“We’re fine.  Monroe’s at the scene for now and I’ll take over for her at lunch so she can get some sleep.”  Harper said.  “But what’s this about Bellamy and evidence?”

“He’s...helping,” Clarke said awkwardly.

“You realize he’s a professional nerd, not a cop, right?” Miller asked.

“You know how he is.  He showed up at my place this morning, announcing that he would be looking into Pike’s murder with or without our help.  This way he won’t get his dumb ass killed.  Have you guys found anything yet?”

Harper and Miller exchanged a look.  “I pulled Pike’s cell phone records— nothing too unusual, aside from one call to Indra’s diner on Tuesday and a series of calls to and from the same 919 number,” Harper said.  “It’s registered to the State Bureau of Investigation, but the guy who answered said he’s an old army buddy of Pike’s, so I guess that explains that.”

“Any idea what the call to Indra was about?” Clarke asked.  Indra’s hatred of Pike was just as well-known as Octavia’s, and Pike didn’t seem like the type to deliberately antagonize someone.

“It was pretty short— might have just been ordering food, but I’ll check it out,” Miller supplied.

“You wanted the recorder?” Harper prompted.

“Yeah, thanks,” Clarke said, bracing for battle as she walked to the interview room.

“So this is your kingdom,” Bellamy said when she shut the door.

“Cut the crap,” she snapped.  “I’m letting you tag along.  You can at least not be a dick.”

Bellamy looked momentarily chastened and nodded.  “So how does this work?”

“First, you tell me everything your sister said.  And I mean everything.  If she’s innocent, I will protect her.  I promise.”  Clarke hit record and pulled out a pen to take notes.

“There’s a warrant out for her arrest, isn’t there?”

“There is,” she confirmed.  “So she called you?  You didn’t call her?”

“She called me.  A little before midnight— you can check my phone, if you want.”

“I will, but for now I’ll assume you’re telling the truth.”

“So generous,” he snarked, but then sobered.  “I was sleeping.  I had no idea— I didn’t know what happened.  I picked up the phone and she told me she wasn’t on the island anymore and I wasn’t supposed to worry.  I asked what was wrong and she just repeated herself—  _ I’m safe, don’t worry about me,  _ and then she hung up.  Lasted maybe thirty seconds.”  He slid his phone across the chipped tabletop, and Clarke looked through his recent calls.  Sure enough, there was one from  _ O Blake  _ at 11:49pm that lasted all of 21 seconds.  Bellamy could have deleted the records of other calls, she supposed, but she trusted him.  For now.  It wasn’t really proof that Octavia was off-island either, but Clarke’s gut told her Octavia wouldn’t lie to her brother about that.

“And you’ve had no contact from your sister since then?”

“None.  Her phone goes straight to voicemail.”  Clarke scrolled through his phone a little more to confirm his statement, but they’d tried to pinpoint her cell last night to no avail.  It was either dead or turned off.

“So what did you do then?”

“I got up, checked the news, saw the story about Pike, and got in my car.  Stopped once on my way here for gas at some shithole in southern Virginia.  I’ve still got the receipt.”

Clarke waved his offer away.  “How’d you get over here so early?”  The ferry stopped running at ten and didn’t start again until six-thirty, but if he didn’t leave DC until midnight there was no way for him to get across the strait so early.

“Called Raven when I was getting close.  She came over and got me.”

“Then whose car is in my driveway now?”

Bellamy shrugged.  “It’s one of Raven’s.  Air conditioning and radio don’t work yet, but it runs fine.”

“Any ideas where Octavia might have gone?”

“None.  I’m her only family left, aside from Indra and Lincoln, and I’m assuming she’s not at Indra’s.”

“She’s not,” Clarke confirmed.  “Indra claims she hasn’t seen her since yesterday morning.  Is there anyone else she might turn to?  Friends?  Distant relatives?”

Bellamy looked down and fiddled with his cuff.  “Not that I— not that I know of.  Not anyone off-island, anyway.  You’d know everyone she’d turn to here.”

Clarke nodded and made a note in her pad to check with Monty and Jasper, but now that Miller lived with Monty she was reasonably sure a wanted murderer wouldn’t risk running into a cop, not to mention the fact that Monty wouldn’t look too kindly on her for threatening Miller.  And Jasper couldn’t keep a secret to save his soul.  She stopped the recorder and looked up.  “That’s it for the interview.  Ready to go to the crime scene?”

Bellamy looked up, surprise etched across his handsome face.  “Really?”

“You’re the one that wants to play Nancy Drew.”

“Please, if anything I’m Miss Marple,” he said with a crooked grin, but now that Clarke was caffeinated, she noticed that his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.  He was worried as hell and hiding it well, but she didn’t know how long he’d last.

“All right, Jane.  Get your knitting and let’s go,” she said.  

It was going to be a long, long day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 100% written, and updates will be posted every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Leave your guesses as to the identity of the murderer in the comments, if you're so inclined, and thanks for reading!
> 
> (Special thanks to kay-emm-gee and bleedtoloveher for their help).


	2. Two

It was strange driving her squad car with Bellamy in the passenger seat.  Clarke hadn’t had a regular partner since she was promoted two years ago (by virtue of being the only police officer on the island with a college degree when David retired) and Miller joined the force, taking Clarke’s old spot with Harper.  They drove past the downtown, mostly shuttered now that the summer tourist season was well and truly over, the tiny library, and the Baptist church.  Clarke turned left off Main Street and glanced at Bellamy, who was looking out the window with a thoughtful expression.  “What happened to the historical society?” he asked when they passed the sizeable Victorian home, the windows now boarded up.

“They closed it after Vera Kane died.  She was the only one working there, and I think they posted the job but didn’t have any takers.  Kind of hard to convince someone to move out here for less than thirty thousand a year, you know?”

“What, ‘the pay is shitty and half the year we’re overrun with tourists and the other half you’re stuck with people who gossip so much it’s practically a contact sport’ wasn’t a good enough pitch?”

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Clarke said as they turned onto Pike’s road.

“Not all of us are lucky enough to be the mayor’s daughter,” Bellamy pointed out.

“Step-daughter.  My mom hasn’t been mayor for like, five years, and Marcus just got elected this spring,” she corrected.  She stopped the car in front of Pike’s small bungalow.  Monroe’s squad car was in the driveway and bright yellow tape marked the front door.  The clouds were sticking around, casting everything in an eerie light.  

She could see movement inside as the mainland forensics team she’d requested bustled about.  This was the first murder in Arkadia since she became chief and while her deputies were more than capable, this was not something they really had experience with.  Besides, they all personally knew both the victim and the prime suspect and Clarke wanted this all to be above board.

“Your mom’s still at the hospital?” Bellamy asked, slamming the car door behind him.

“She is.  Did you hear that Murphy’s a nurse?”

“That creep?  You sure  _ he’s _ not the murderer?”

Clarke snorted against her better judgement.  “Pretty sure.  According to my mom, he’s actually really good.”

“Stranger things have happened, I guess,” Bellamy said.  He hesitated as they approached the house.  “Is he— is the body—”

“The body went to the morgue last night,” Clarke assured him.  “I stayed at the scene until it was done.  There will be blood though.  You gonna pass out on me?”

“Let’s hope not.”

Clarke grabbed latex gloves from the small table the forensics team had set up outside the perimeter and shoved them in Bellamy’s hands.  “Wear these, and don’t you dare touch anything,” she warned.

She ducked under the tape and held it up for Bellamy as he crossed the threshold.  “How’s it going?” she asked Monroe, who was standing off to the side watching the team gather evidence.

“It’s good,” Monroe said, and then her face lit up when she saw Bellamy.  “Bellamy?  What the hell?” she exclaimed, and Bellamy wrapped her a bear hug.

Clarke cleared her throat uncomfortably and they broke apart.  She loathed to admit it, but part of her annoyance was with the hero’s welcome Bellamy seemed to be receiving.  It wasn’t just Monroe, either— it was Miller’s excited countenance that morning, and the way Harper had been talking his ear off while they got ready to leave the station.  She didn’t mind that they liked him, but she did feel a little possessive.  He left and she stayed (okay, so she left for college too but she came back of her own free will and not because a family member had been accused of murder), and she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous at how excited they all were to see him.  “Have the crime scene guys found anything?” she asked Monroe.

A tech looked up from where he was crouching on the floor.  “It’ll take a day or two to log everything, but so far nothing out of the ordinary for a fight like this.  No clean fingerprints yet except for what you found on the murder weapon.”  

Bellamy raised an eyebrow at her.  “You found fingerprints?  And didn’t tell me?”

Clarke choked back a sigh because if she sighed every time Bellamy bothered her she might pass out from lack of oxygen.  “Yeah, amazingly I haven’t told the main suspect’s brother about every piece of evidence,” she snarked.  “There’s no hit on the prints, but your sister isn’t in the system so that’s not a surprise. But they’re small.  Likely a woman’s.”  She looked back at the tech.  “We got a warrant this morning to search the suspect’s apartment.  One of my deputies will take you over there to see if you can find a match.”

“There is this too,” the tech called.  He was kneeling by an overturned coatrack several feet from the dried pool of blood where Pike’s body had been found.  There were smeared, brownish-red footprints all over the carpet from the EMTs who had quickly realized they were simply a formality.  A thick canvas coat she recognized as Pike’s was covered in shards of broken glass and there was a smashed picture frame next to it; a dark square on the wall marking where it used to reside.  The tech motioned to a red scarf pinned underneath the mess.

Clarke bent down and watched as the tech carefully removed it.  It was a woman’s scarf, made more for decoration than warmth.  “Does this look familiar?”  she asked Bellamy.

He was leaning over her shoulder and squinting.  “No,” he said promptly, and at her suspicious look he rolled his eyes.  “Okay, fine.  It doesn’t look familiar but I don’t have a mental catalogue of every item of clothing my sister owns so maybe it is her’s, but I really don’t think it is.”

The tech looked between them with a quizzical expression.  “Well, um— does your sister shop at...Chico’s?” he asked and pointed to a label one edge.

“It’s not Octavia’s,” Clarke said decisively.

“You’re sure?” Bellamy asked, straightening out as she stood.

“Positive.  Chico’s is where my mom and her friends shop.  Definitely not your sister’s style.”

Bellamy glanced around the room.  “Pike was single, right?”

“As far as I know,” Clarke said and motioned him towards the kitchen.   “He wasn’t married, and if he was seeing someone he never mentioned it.”

The kitchen also bore signs of the fight.  Two chairs were overturned near the kitchen table and there were remains of a shattered plate between the sink and the center island.

“This looks...new,” Bellamy said, taking in the stainless steel appliances.

“He redid it a few months ago,” Clarke said, a vague memory surfacing of Pike living on Gina’s ravioli for several weeks right before the start of the tourist season.

“So he came into money?  Or do you pay people bonuses for arresting innocent men?”

Clarke sent Bellamy a sharp look.  “His mom died recently.  I think he got some money from the inheritance.  And if you could stop throwing Lincoln in my face every two minutes, that’d be great.”

Bellamy swallowed back whatever he was going to say next and followed her to the stairs.  The steps creaked under their feet as she led him up the wood paneled staircase.  

Pike’s bedroom door was open.  It was a stark contrast from the scene downstairs— not a single thing out of place and the bed made with military precision.  It was spartan, just like his desk at the station.  “So he’s single, but we’ve got a scarf belonging to a middle aged woman downstairs?” Bellamy asked, having apparently decided to let Lincoln go for the moment.

Clarke shrugged.  “He could have a girlfriend we don’t know about.  He wasn’t exactly the sharing type.”

Bellamy stopped near Pike’s dresser.  “Think she left her jewelry behind too?” he said, bending down as if to pick something up.

“I said don’t touch anything,” Clarke snapped and shoved him aside.  A necklace was tucked behind the back leg of Pike’s the dark oak dresser, coiled haphazardly and partially swallowed by the thick blue carpet.  It was silver— delicately and definitely not cheaply made— with a small charm attached.  The miniature globe caught the weak morning light and an etched image of the eastern hemisphere winked up at her.  Clarke’s heart sank when she recognized it.

“That’s definitely not Octavia’s,” Bellamy said.

“No, it isn’t,” Clarke confirmed, because she’d seen it dozens, if not hundreds of times, dangling from its owner’s neck as she bent over to deliver a plate or nestled just below her collarbone as she worked the register.

The necklace belonged to Indra DuBois, Lincoln’s aunt and the only other person Octavia Blake considered family.

 

* * *

 

“So where to now?” Bellamy asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Jasper’s,” she decided.  The way she saw it, she had two goals— find Octavia and piece together Pike’s murder.  Indra’s necklace could help with the latter, but Clarke had already questioned Indra last night about the former and got nowhere.  She suspected she wouldn’t get any further if she questioned Indra as a murder suspect, especially not with such flimsy evidence.  Better to wait until they had something more concrete to go on with that, whereas Jasper would be a relatively easy nut to crack. 

Clarke’s phone jangled with an incoming call, and she pulled it out of her jacket pocket, saw  _ unknown number  _ again, and silenced it.  “Someone you’re ignoring?” Bellamy asked.

She guided the car back to Main Street.  “Just a telemarketer,” she lied.  

“You know you can be on a list where they can’t call you, right?”

“Haven’t had time to sign up,” she shrugged.  The houses grew dingier and smaller as they headed down-island, away from Clarke’s old neighborhood and towards Bellamy’s.  Arkadia had two sides: up-island, where Clarke grew up, had sandy beaches and tastefully decorated, sprawling homes.  That was where wealthy tourists rented out beachside manors for weeks at a time during the summer, and most of the up-island residents were doctors from the small hospital or hotel owners who wanted to live close to their main source of income.  Down-islanders mostly worked in those hotels, and their side of the island bore the brunt of the storms, their beaches little more than rocky outcroppings with dangerous currents.

Jasper lived in half of a duplex owned by Raven, right on the edge of the water.  No less than three cars in various states of repair littered the patchy lawn, proof of Raven’s habit of buying pieces of junk and rehabbing them when she wasn’t changing oil or fixing flats for tourists.  A dock stuck out into the water, Raven’s boat moored on the left just past the weeds.  Clarke took note of the empty space to the right and knocked on Jasper’s door.

He answered right away, his face lighting up with happiness at the sight of Bellamy.  “Dude, you’re here?” he said, ignoring Clarke.  At least he pushed the door open for her before nearly tackling Bellamy with his embrace, but still.

“It’s not really celebratory circumstances,” Clarke scolded, and Jasper let go of Bellamy with a guilty look on his face.  

“Right.  The murder thing,” he said with considerably less enthusiasm.

“I suspect you know why we’re here?”

Jasper looked nervously between Clarke and Bellamy and chewed on his lower lip.  “I— um, I’m not a suspect, right?”

“Should you be?” Clarke asked.

Jasper ran his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck.  “I might, um, never mind.”

“Might what, Jasper?” Bellamy prompted.  “Come on man, if you know something— I’ve gotta find O.”

“Does this have anything to do with your boat being missing?” Clarke asked.

“Maybe?”

Clarke fought the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose to soothe the tension headache building in her skull.  “Lying won’t do you any good,” she pointed out.  “If you saw her, chances are someone else in this town did too. And if you lie, I might be forced to charge you as an accessory after the fact.  Don’t make me do that.”  It was mostly a bluff, but it worked.  

Jasper’s face fell and he sank into the desk chair stationed in front of his wall of computers.  “Octavia, might have, um— she was sort of here last night.”

“Start from the beginning,” Clarke said and pulled out her notepad.  Bellamy took a seat on the couch and she perched next to him, pen at the ready.

“It was late.  Like, I dunno, maybe eleven?  I was still up playing League of Legends when she just like, walked in.  Or ran in, really.  She seemed kind of freaked out, and she said she needed to borrow my boat and get off the island.”

“Did she say why?”

“She wouldn’t.  I asked, but she just said I needed to trust her.”

“So you just...gave her your boat, just like that, no other questions asked?”

Jasper shrugged, running his hand through his hair again.  “It’s Octavia.  She said it was important, so I figured it probably was.  And I mean, running away from a murder scene is a pretty damn good reason, right?”

“How did she look?” Bellamy asked.  He was leaning forward, his forearms resting on his knees.  

“Freaked out.”

“No, I mean physically.  Was she hurt?”

“She had some scratches on her face, I think, and a cut on her hand.  She’d wrapped something around it already.”

“No bruising?  Was she limping?  Favoring an arm?” Bellamy pushed.

“I don’t think so?”

Bellamy sent her a pointed look that Clarke chose to ignore.  “So Octavia arrived here, mostly physically unharmed as far as you could tell but with some superficial cuts, and asked for your boat.  When did she leave?” Clarke redirected.

“I gave her the keys and she was gone.”

“Any chance anyone can confirm this story?”

“No?” Jasper said uncertainly.  “Raven goes to bed like, grandma early, so she probably wasn’t up.”

“Maya didn’t come over last night?”  Clarke knew that Maya preferred to live in town within walking distance of her library, but things had been getting more serious between her and Jasper ever since Monty moved into Miller’s place that winter.

“Not last night, no.”

“And you heard about the murder when?”

“Monty texted after he heard about it from Miller.”

Of course— the Arkadia gossip train was quite possibly the most efficient way to spread news, faster even than the internet.  “How long after Octavia left?”

“Like, right away.  I could still hear the motor.”

“Do you know where she left the boat?”

“She said I could pick it up at the abandoned docks south of Polis.”  Clarke nodded and wrote that down.  She would have Roan send some of his deputies to cordon off the docks and search the boat, although she doubted Octavia left much behind.  The Blakes were smart, after all.  “I’m guessing I won’t be going to get it today, will I?” Jasper asked resignedly.

“Probably not.  I’ll contact you once it’s been searched.”

“Am I...in trouble?”

Clarke stood and slipped her notepad back in her pocket.  “Not right now, no.  But it goes without saying that this isn’t good, okay?  Stick around— I might need to question you again.”  

Bellamy said his goodbyes to Jasper while she called the state patrol to let Roan know about the boat.  “You didn’t have to be such a dick to him, you know,” Bellamy said as the first drops of rain spattered the windshield.  His seatbelt clicked into place and he sighed.  “He’s just a kid.”

Clarke gave a dry laugh.  “He’s twenty-six, not twelve.  And he did aid and abet a murder suspect.  It’s not like I gave him a hard time just for shits and giggles.”  She reversed out of the muddy driveway and turned the car around.

“So now where to?”

“Back to the station and see what they’ve come up with.”  Harper was going to canvas the neighbors all morning, but Clarke wasn’t holding out much hope that she would turn anything up.   If no one heard what had clearly been a knock down, drag out fight and called the police, chances are no one would have seen anything useful either.  “Oh, and we’re picking up lunch for everyone.”

“Indra’s?”

“Gina’s,” Clarke corrected.  “We’re a fancy town with two whole restaurants open year round now.”

“Wait, Gina?  Like...high school Gina?”

“Well she’s definitely not in high school anymore, but if you mean Gina Martin, yeah.  She runs an Italian place off 17th.”

“Oh,” Bellamy said and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  

Clarke furrowed her brow, hazy memories of high school dances resurfacing.  “Oh god, you dated her, didn’t you?”

Bellamy scrubbed a hand across his face.  “Yeah.  For like, two years.  And then I— well, I didn’t really handle the breakup well.”

“Took it hard, huh?”

“No I ended it.  Well, sort of.  I kind of just...left.  For good.”

Clarke turned left past Raven’s garage and pulled into the strip mall that housed Gina’s restaurant, a laundromat, and a nail salon.  “You ghosted?”

“I called to end it, if that...counts.”

“After two years?  Not really.  But she’s with Luna now, so I think you’re safe.”

“Luna...why does that sound familiar?”

“She rents out boats to tourists down by the main beach.  She was probably a few years ahead of you in school?  Had blue hair for awhile?”

Bellamy nodded in recognition.  “She organized a sit in to protest the Iraq War when I was a sophomore.”

“That definitely sounds like her.”

“Gina’s with her?”

“Yup.  Us bi ladies gotta stick together so the three of us have like, craft nights and shit,” Clarke replied and killed the engine. 

“Really?”

“No.  But sometimes we get drunk together and I can promise you, your name has never come up.  You can hide here if you want, or you can come in and face the music.”

Clarke climbed out of the car without looking back and opened the door to Gina’s, the bell tinkling above her as she entered.

“Hey there chief,” Gina called through the pass through from the kitchen.  “Just finishing your order.  Who’s the lasagna for?  Roan stopping by?”  The bell rang again and Gina looked over Clarke’s shoulder.  The smile slid off her face and she threw down the towel she’d been using to wipe her hands.  “Bellamy Blake.  You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here after what you pulled.”

Bellamy froze.  “I’m sorry,” he said, and it sounded sincere.  “I’ll— I’ll go.”

Gina let out a bark of laughter.  “I’m kidding, asshole.  Get over here.”  She walked out of the kitchen and hugged him despite the splatters of sauce on her apron.  

“I am sorry,” Clarke heard him say into her hair.  “I was a huge dick.”

Gina stepped out of his arms and grabbed the bag for Clarke.  “Yeah, you were.  And I might have hated you for a good few years there, but water under the bridge and all that.  I’d avoid my girlfriend though.  She might kill you, pacifism be damned.”  She turned to Clarke and accepted her credit card.  “So I assume this means the rumors are true— Pike’s dead and Octavia’s on the run?”

“Looks that way,” Clarke said and scribbled her signature.  “About Octavia, I mean.  Pike’s definitely dead.”

Gina looked back at Bellamy, sympathy etched on her face.  “That’s horrible.  I haven’t talked to her much lately, but I remember her being so sweet when we were together.  It just doesn’t seem like her.”

“Thanks,” he said, and they shared a private smile, sad and resigned and comforting all at once.

“Right, well we better get back before the food is cold.  You know how Miller is when he’s hungry,” Clarke said a little too loudly.

“You sticking around?” Gina asked Bellamy.

“Looks like it,” he said.

“Well, if you ever want a meal, you can stop by and catch up,” Gina replied warmly.

For no reason at all, Clarke scowled the entire drive back to the station.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gina's definitely quoting Lando Calrissian there. Bellamy's just too worried to catch on.


	3. Three

“Boss?” Miller said, sticking his head into Clarke’s office.  “Roan’s here.”

Bellamy looked up from the list he was working on, trying to brainstorm any possible place Octavia might be hiding.  He had agreed to share his thoughts with Clarke in exchange for access to the forensics reports once they arrived.  This was a horrible breach of protocol, but fuck it.  She was breaking the rules for him anyway.  Might as well go all in.

Clarke closed out the email alerting her that one of their old arrests had been paroled.  She didn’t recognize the name and he’d been arrested before she started working there, but the charge looked like a standard bar-fight-gone-wrong.  She’d have to remember to ask David Miller about it when she had a chance.  “Send him in,” she said and Bellamy looked at her quizzically.

“State patrol.  They handled Jasper’s boat,” she explained when Roan swaggered in.  (Roan Glazer never  _ walked _ anywhere, because walking was for mere mortals.  He strode, he swaggered, and sometimes he stomped, but he never just walked.  It came from a bad combination of good looks and too much money, but she liked him all the same.)  “What’d you find?”

Roan handed over the file.  “Not much.  Something that might be blood so we’ll have the lab take a look at it.  Otherwise, looks like mostly Jasper’s shit.  He’s lucky we didn’t find any weed.”

Clarke chuckled and flipped it open.  “No sign of her?”

“I’ve alerted my guys, but no.  You said she’s not to be considered dangerous, but she’s suspected of killing a cop with a machete.  You sure about that whole not-dangerous thing?”

“My sister’s not a threat,” Bellamy gritted out.

Roan turned to him with an amused look.  “So you must be the brother,” he observed, and Clarke decided to cut in before the testosterone levels in her office reached dangerous heights.  She knew what Roan was like with fresh meat, and Bellamy was way too easily baited.

“If Octavia killed him, she probably had a reason.  She’s not the type to just randomly kill someone,” Clarke explained.  “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“You realize that ‘I know her so don’t worry’ is terrible fucking police work, right?”

“You realize that in this office, I’m in charge, right?” Clarke threw back, echoing his tone.

Roan held up his hands in surrender.  “It’s your call.  By the way, we found tire prints near the dock.  No telling how old they are, but someone might have picked her up.  Not a lot of traffic out that way, so she probably didn’t hitchhike.”

“Good to know,” Clarke said.  “You sticking around today?”  Roan nodded, and Clarke noticed the way Bellamy was still glaring daggers at him.  “‘Kay, well, you mind telling Jasper he can go get his boat?”

“On it,” Roan said and with one last scornful look at Bellamy he strode out.

Bellamy waited until Roan’s footsteps died away.  “Who’s that dickbag?”

“I told you.  State patrol.”

“Yeah, I got that.  Why does he know Jasper?”

Clarke cocked her head to the side.  “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“I thought you were friends with Raven.”

“Clarke,” he sighed, and Clarke felt a surge of triumph that she had annoyed him for once.

“They’re together.”

“Raven and that jackass?”

“Yeah.  For like, two years now.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.  I’ve seen him with his shirt off.  She hit the jackpot.”  Bellamy scowled and she grinned.  “He takes a little getting used to, but he’s a decent guy.  I swear.”  

Miller walked past her office and she waved him in.  “Hey, think Hannah would be up for coming out of retirement temporarily?  Without Pike things are gonna be tight.”  Her phone lit up near her elbow and Clarke silenced it without even checking.  She knew who it was, and she knew what the message would say.

_ I’m coming for you, bitch _ .  It was scary the first time, but after several calls a day for weeks it had lost its punch.  She didn’t even listen to the messages anymore, just deleted them as soon as they arrived.

Miller winced.  “I can ask.  Want me to talk to my dad too?”

“Anyone who can help would be great, yeah.  Otherwise I can ask Roan if he can loan us a body or two until we hire someone new.”

“Will do.”  Miller looked at her phone pointedly.  “He still giving you shit?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said airily.

“Get a restraining order,” Miller pleaded.  They’d had this conversation a dozen times but apparently he felt like revisiting it once more.

“I can handle myself.  And besides, a restraining order is just a piece of paper.  I’m not scared of him.”

“Then at least block his number.”

“I’ve done that.  He just buys a new burner phone.  It’s not worth it, okay?”

Miller looked like he wanted to argue, but he let it go.  “Hey— I get if it’s too much with the case and all, but today’s—”

“Your anniversary,” Clarke finished.  “Dammit, I forgot.  You’re meeting Monty in Polis for the night, right?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Yeah, get out of here.  I’ll stay until Monroe gets in.”

“Indra’s interview is scheduled for eight— want Harper to stay?”

“I can handle it.  Go, okay?”

Bellamy watched Miller leave before he asked the question he’d clearly been considering.  “What was that about?”

“It’s his and Monty’s one year,” she said, opening the calendar on her computer.  If Hannah and David could chip in, they could probably make it a few weeks until she found a replacement.  She hoped.

“Yeah, that’s definitely what I was asking about.  Who the hell is calling you all the time?”

“Nobody.”  Bellamy opened his mouth to counter her, but she held up her hand.  “It’s nothing, okay?  I’m the cop here, not you.  I’ve got a gun and I know how to use it.  I’m fine.”

Like Miller before him, Bellamy reluctantly let it drop.  “When does Monroe’s next shift start?”

Clarke looked at the time.  “Harper sent her home before lunch to get some sleep.  Pike’s shift usually started at ten, and technically she’s covering for him, so probably around then.”

“Real tight ship you run here,” he said with a gentle smile.

Clarke shrugged and rubbed her eyes.  They were burning with exhaustion thanks to four hours of sleep last night, and it looked like tonight would be no different.  “It’s different.  Pike— he was one of our own, even if...well, even if we didn’t always see eye to eye.”  That was the understatement of the century, to be perfectly honest.  Lincoln’s arrest last year had drawn a thick line between the old guard and the new, with Harper and Monroe flat out refusing to speak to Pike or Green unless absolutely necessary.  Nathan was a bit more delicate with Monty’s mother until her retirement, but his relationship with Pike had been strained too.  Clarke tried to strike a balance between the two camps, because while her sympathy lay with Lincoln, she understood why Pike and Green clung to the rule of law.  “I’m trying to go easy on them,” she finished.  “We don’t get a lot of murders here.  This is hard.”

Bellamy nodded and for once he didn’t challenge her.  “I was thinking— can I look through Pike’s old files?”

“What are you looking for?”

“Well, you think Octavia killed him because he arrested Lincoln.  Which is bull, but maybe there’s someone else with a grudge against him.”

He had a point, so Clarke led him to the storage room and started digging out boxes of Pike’s old cases.  There were dozens, dating back almost twenty years.  Bellamy hauled the first batch to the interview room while Clarke took a box to her office, and for the next hour she scanned through the files, looking for anyone who might have a grudge.

But Arkadia was not a town with a highly developed criminal element.  Most of Pike’s cases were pretty run-of-the-mill: DUIs, bicycle thefts, drunk and disorderlies, and a few breaking and entering.  Not really the stuff of lifelong grudges, much less murder.  There were a few that caught her eye, like the dealer he’d arrested when Clarke wasn’t yet in kindergarten, but most were too mundane to stand out.

Harper clocked out at six and Clarke grabbed another cup of coffee to keep herself running.  The forensics report wouldn’t be done until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, so Pike’s old cases were all she had to keep herself busy.  It seemed off— there was a murder to be solved, and Clarke was basically just twiddling her thumbs.  But until they had more information from the scene, there really wasn’t much to get done, and she didn’t have the manpower to launch a search for Octavia.  No calls came in either, and Clarke had honestly almost forgotten Bellamy was there until he appeared in her doorway.

He tossed a snickers bar at her.  “I get the feeling you forget to eat a lot,” he observed.

Clarke shrugged and unwrapped it.  “Kind of.  Need me to order out?  I’m sure Gina would be more than happy to accommodate you.”  She couldn’t help it— a little annoyance leaked into her tone, even as she tried to keep it under control.

And unfortunately, Bellamy seemed to pick up on it.  “I just might,” he said with a smirk, and Clarke returned to her files with an annoyed  _ tsk _ .

“By the way, where are you staying?” she asked when he didn’t leave.

“Hadn’t really thought about it.  I was planning on staying with either Raven or Miller, but I guess that’s out.  I’ll just head up to one of the shore hotels.”

“You’ve been off-island for too long, city boy.  Those are all closed for the season.”

“Fine.  Then I’ll sleep in my car, since I assume Octavia’s place is off-limits.”

Clarke had known where the conversation was going from the moment she opened her mouth.  “My couch pulls out.  You can stay with me.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, but ask me again and maybe I’ll reconsider.”  

She looked up to find his expression softer than she’d seen it all day.  “Thanks,” he said.

She found a genuine smile spreading across her own face in return.  “No problem.”

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke had the interview room ready by the time Indra arrived.  The recorder was sitting near Clarke’s elbow, a water bottle placed near Indra’s chair.  She’d refused Bellamy’s request to sit in on the interview because she was already breaking pretty much every rule to let him help and she wasn’t about to risk letting a murderer go free because she let a civilian help with an interrogation.

Indra walked in with her usual unruffled composure at three minutes to eight.  Clarke escorted her to the room and took a seat across from her, mentally crossing her fingers that Indra was more cooperative than last night.  She understood Indra’s instinct to protect Octavia, but Indra wouldn’t be doing herself or Octavia any favors by withholding information.

Clarke started the recording and began.  “How do you know Charles Pike?”

“He grew up in Arkadia.  So did I.  It’s not a big place.”

Clarke bit back a groan because she could tell how this was going to go.  “So did you have a personal relationship with him?”

“Depends on what you mean by that.”

“Did you see him socially?”

“He came to my diner sometimes.”

“Ever see him outside of your business?”

“Sometimes.”

“In what context?” Clarke asked, but Indra just looked at her silently, her face impassive.  “When you saw Pike not as a customer, how would you characterize your relationship?  Friendly?”

“I’m not particularly friendly with anyone,” Indra deadpanned.

Clarke chewed on the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling and decided to change tactics for awhile.  “You raised Lincoln from when he was a child, correct?”

“He was my sister’s boy.  When she died, I took him in.”

“How old was he then?”

“Twelve.”

“So it would be fair to say that for the last seventeen years, you’ve seen Lincoln as a son?”

“Yes.”

“And how did you feel about Pike arresting him?”

“It was bullshit,” Indra said, a hint of anger leaking through her carefully controlled facade.  

“So you disliked Pike?”

Once again, Indra declined to respond.  She sat with her hands folded together, the water bottle untouched to her right.  She blinked at Clarke, her dark brown eyes completely unreadable.

“You were upset that he arrested Lincoln, correct?”

“I was upset that Lincoln was arrested at all.”

“Upset with Pike personally?”  

“I was upset that it happened.”

“When was the last time you saw Pike?”

“It’s a small town.  I saw him all the time.”

Clarke stifled an aggrieved sigh.  “When was the last time you spoke with him?”

Indra hesitated and then shrugged.  “He came into my diner a few months after Lincoln was arrested.  I kicked him out.  Haven’t spoken to him since.”

“Not even when he called the diner on Tuesday?”

“No,” she said, her eyes on her hands.  “He must have been ordering take out.  One of my employees must have taken the order.”

“Where were you last night between the hours of ten and eleven?”  Miller had interrupted Octavia at the scene shortly before eleven and judging by the body temperature, Pike hadn’t died much earlier than that.  The medical examiner might be able to give them a more specific time, but Clarke was fairly confident in the chain of events.

“I was at the diner finishing up closing.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

“Fox was there,” Indra said, naming the little slip of a girl that worked as a waitress.  Clarke jotted down a note to have someone interview Fox to confirm the alibi.

“Did you see Octavia Blake at all that day?”

“We had breakfast together.  After that, no.”

“Do you recognize this?” she asked, showing Indra a photo of the scarf they’d found.  It looked too colorful for Indra, who preferred a wardrobe consisting almost entirely of black or navy, but she was in the right age bracket.

“No.”

“It doesn’t belong to you?”

“Not my style.”

Clark nodded and pulled out the small plastic evidence bag from her back pocket.  “Do you recognize this?” she asked and slid the necklace across the table.

“Looks like my necklace.”

“So it’s yours.”

“I didn’t say that,” Indra said.  “I said it looks like mine.”

“I’ve seen you wear a necklace identical to this one for years.”

“Doesn’t make it mine.”

“Can you produce yours?  I see you aren’t wearing it today.”

“I lost it,” Indra said calmly.  “Just over a year ago.”

“Did you report it stolen?” Clarke asked, the tension headache that had been lurking behind her eyes all day coming into full bloom.

“I didn’t say it was stolen.  I said it was lost.  Were you going to come and search my house for it if I filed a report?”

“Understandable.  Do you own a machete?”

“Do I need a lawyer?” Indra asked sharply.

“I don’t know, do you?”

They stared at each other, unblinking, while the clock above the door ticked loudly.  Indra pursed her lips and nodded once, a sharp jerk of her head.  “I do.  I use it to clear brush on the property behind my house.”

“And where do you keep it?”

“Gardening shed on the back corner of my lot.”

“If I asked to see it, would it still be there?”

Indra shrugged.  “It was last week when I put it in there, but the shed doesn’t have a lock.”

This time, Clarke did sigh.  “Anything else you’d like to add to your statement?”

“No.”

Clarke sized Indra up and decided to fold.  If she was guilty she was doing a hell of a job hiding her nerves, and Clarke knew she didn’t have anywhere near enough to arrest her.  “Right, well, thank you for your cooperation,” Clarke said, and with a curt nod Indra stood and walked out.

Bellamy appeared at the door while she was digging the heel of her palms into her eyes.  “Did you get anything?”

“Says it’s not her scarf and claims she lost the necklace over a year ago.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I don’t know.  The scarf, yeah.  It could be someone else’s, because she’s right— it’s not really her style.  But the necklace...it’s too much of a coincidence for me.  I think it’s hers, but as to how it got there, your guess is as good as mine.”

Bellamy dropped into the chair Indra had just vacated.  “Does she have an alibi?”

“Says she was with Fox closing up the diner.”

Bellamy nodded slowly.  “Okay, so what do we have?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what did we find out today?  What’s the summary?”

Clarke leaned back in her chair and let her eyes unfocus on the ceiling.  The tiny holes in the ceiling tiles blurred together and then separated back out, a mottled patch of brown in the corner marking the time the station roof leaked for three weeks last year.  “Two days ago, Octavia threatened to kill him and now Pike is dead after what looks like a hell of a fight.  No sign of forced entry, so whoever it was, either he knew them or they had a key.  Just about everything in the living room was smashed or tipped over, and there’s a woman’s scarf that was hanging on his coatrack. Octavia’s prints were on the murder weapon.  And there was a woman’s necklace in his bedroom, but who knows how long that was there or if it’s even relevant.”

Bellamy knitted his fingers together behind his neck.  “And Pike came into some money this spring,” he added.

“Remodeling your kitchen isn’t really a sign of criminal intent,” she countered.

“I’m just saying, it’s something to consider.”

“Okay, fine.  Pike remodeled his kitchen, which isn’t relevant at all but we’ll include it just for the hell of it.  Miller drove to Pike’s house at just before eleven and found the front door wide open, Octavia standing over his body with a machete, which appears to be the murder weapon.”

“Do we have an official cause of death yet?”

“You think he spontaneously died of tuberculosis in the middle of a fight?”

Bellamy rolled his eyes.  “I mean, do we know that the machete is what killed him?  Could he have hit his head during the fight while the stab wound wasn’t fatal?”

“No official ruling from the medical examiner yet, but judging by the pool of blood, I’d say it was the machete.”

“Fair enough.  So Miller finds O at the scene,” he continued.

“She’s holding the machete and she rushes him before he can draw his weapon,” Clarke added.  “He lets her go and radios in the call.  I arrive on the scene with Harper at approximately ten after eleven, around which time Octavia had reached Jasper’s and borrowed his boat.”

“A mostly unharmed Octavia,” Bellamy corrected.  “You saw that scene— whoever Pike fought is probably in rough shape.”

“Or Pike and his house got the worst of it,” she countered.  “Your sister does do martial arts.”

“Please.  She teaches kickboxing to housewives.”.

“Hey, I’m no housewife,” Clarke volleyed back.  There was a glimmer of a smile on his lips at that, but she forced her thoughts back to the case.  “But you do have a point.  Octavia appeared to be mostly uninjured, and the state patrol didn’t find much blood in the boat, so either she wasn’t bleeding too hard or she was able to stanch it before she got in the boat.”  Bellamy’s face paled a little at her insinuation and she found herself hurrying to placate him.  “We didn’t find a blood trail at the house either, so I’m not saying she was bleeding badly.  Just if she was, we would have found it by now.  And I know you don’t want to hear this, but she is the prime suspect right now.  She had a motive, was found with the body, her prints are on the murder weapon, and she ran.  It doesn’t look good,” she said as gently as possible.  “She looks guilty.”

“That doesn’t mean she is,” he said tightly.

Monroe poked her head into the room just then, staving off what was probably going to be a fight.  “Hey, I’m here so you can head out if you want,” she said with a smile towards Bellamy.

“You sure?” Clarke asked.  “Because I can stay if you need some company.”

“No, I’m good.  I’ve got a stack of paperwork to get through and I’ll finish logging the evidence Miller was working on today.”

“Positive?”

Monroe’s eyes flickered between Clarke and Bellamy.  “Get some sleep,” she said.  “I’ve got this.”

  
  
  



	4. Four

Clarke heard the banging when she was still almost a half a mile away, the sound carried to her ears on the stiff wind.   It was getting colder by the day now and pretty soon she’d have to start wearing warmer clothes for her morning run, but for now she would just grit her teeth and bear it.  She balled her hands into fists and ducked her head down to keep sand from blowing into her eyes. 

She automatically stopped her watch when she reached the source of the noises— which also happened to be her house— and squinted up at Bellamy.  He was standing on her ladder, nails pinned between his lips and a hammer in his hand as he boarded up her bedroom window.  “What the hell are you doing?” she called and jogged up the flight of stairs from the beach.

“I know you think I’ve gone soft living off-island, but you’re the one who’s ignoring a hurricane bearing down on you,” he yelled back.

“They always get downgraded to tropical depressions,” she said, crossing her arms at the foot of the ladder.  “And besides, they said it’s not even going to make landfall.  Probably just going to rain a lot for a few days.”  She was forcibly reminded of her sophomore year, when she’d been elected student body vice president to Bellamy's president.  They’d spent the entire year bickering and snarling at each other, with Bellamy often going ahead with projects she either didn’t know about or had specifically vetoed just to annoy her.

Bellamy shrugged and climbed down.  He moved the ladder to the next window and picked up another large piece of plywood.  He must have dug them out from her cellar shortly after she left on her run, along with the hammer and nails.  He’d covered most of the windows on the beach-facing side already.  It made her bristle a bit, even if he had a point— she probably should have done this yesterday since the first bands of the hurricane were scheduled to hit soon.  But with everything else going on she’d managed to completely forget about the hurricane.

“Thanks,” she said grudgingly.  “I’m going to stretch and shower and then we can go to the station.”

Upstairs, Clarke let the hot water beat down over her muscles, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling that it wasn’t unsettling at all to have Bellamy Blake living with her.  Clarke was a loner of sorts. She had friends in town— plenty of them, as a matter of fact— but since things ended with Lexa she’d kept to herself a bit more.  She valued her space and privacy, which was why she bought a house at the very tip of the island, but Bellamy being around didn’t bother her as much as she thought it would.  And that bothered her a lot.

By the time she finished getting dressed she was thoroughly disgruntled.  She shouldn’t have adapted to him this quickly, and she decided that it was somehow his fault.  She found him standing in her living room, eating the apple she’d left out for herself after she stretched (because he had a point; she did tend to skip meals and it was a terrible habit).  He was looking at the photographs on her mantle and she stalked over to him and snatched the apple out of his hand.  “This was my breakfast,” she grumbled.  She looked at it— mostly eaten already, with little half-moon marks where his teeth had broken the skin— and gave it back to him with an exasperated sigh.

“There’s another one on the counter,” he said, entirely unbothered by her attitude.  “And who’s that?”

She followed his gaze to the small framed photo of her and Lexa.  It was tucked behind the photo of her dad at a UNC game and she’d managed to forget it was even there.  She picked it up and looked at their faces, happy and carefree, slightly tipsy on champagne.  “That’s Lexa,” she said, remembering the day it was taken.  It was Gustus and Nyko’s wedding, a bright summer day up in the Smoky Mountains almost two years ago.  She’d been radiantly happy that day, unaware that the end for them was fast approaching.

“And where is Lexa now?” he asked carefully.

“San Diego.  She’s in the Marines and got stationed there just over a year ago, and...that was that.”

“She didn’t want you to go with her?”

“She did.  But I couldn’t leave here, you know?  My people needed me here.”

“They don’t need you,” he scoffed.

“You know what?  Fuck you,” she erupted.  She stomped to her office and put the picture frame face down on her bookshelf.  It was time to stop pretending she could go back in time to when Lexa lived just across the bay.  She was gone, and Clarke had moved on.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Bellamy said from behind her.  “I meant you don’t have to give your life to this shitty little island.  They’d survive without you just fine.  You shouldn’t— you don’t have to give everything up for them.”

“Would you stop it?” she snapped and pushed past him to the kitchen.  Her travel mug was already filled to the brim, sitting next to her keys and badge.  His thoughtfulness just pissed her off even more.  “I get it, okay?  You hate this place.  It’s shitty and poor except for the parts that are too rich, and you think that because you left that makes you better than us.  But fuck that and fuck you.”  

“I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant,” she barrelled on.  “This is my  _ home _ , okay?  My home, my people, my island.  You don’t get to leave and then come back just to insult it.”  She started lacing up her boots with shaking fingers.

“You realize not everyone grew up as the town princess,” he said, anger leaking into his tone.  “Some of us had it rough.  My mother died here, you know.”

“My father died here too.”  She stood, her chest heaving, and stared him down.  “And by the way, I’m letting you be involved in a case that you have no business being a part of because I know how much your sister means to you.  I’m breaking dozens of rules and giving you a free place to stay, so the least you can do is not be a total dick to me.”

Bellamy looked down and swallowed thickly.  “You’re right.  I’m sorry,” he said.  

Her phone rang— right on schedule— and she silenced it without looking.  She wanted to throw her phone, shatter it, or hell, just go outside scream into the wind for an hour, but she had a job to do.  “Let’s go,” she gritted out.

Bellamy followed her meekly and silently to her car.  He waited until they were almost at the station to speak again, clearing his throat quietly.  “I’m sorry about your dad.  He was— he was a good guy.”

An unexpected lump rose in her throat.  Even after all these years, the memory of her father could make her tear up.  “He was,” she agreed.  

“He came to my mom’s funeral,” Bellamy continued.  “It was nice of him.  Not a lot of people did.”

Clarke guiltily remembered the rumors that swirled around town about Aurora Blake before she got sick— she was credited with breaking up at least two marriages while the men who actually did the damage got off with hardly a whisper. 

Unbidden, her mind returned to another memory involving Bellamy.  Wells had taken her to his junior prom, only for Clarke to discover that the reason Finn wanted to keep their relationship a secret wasn’t to spare Raven’s feelings after their recent breakup— it was because he hadn’t broken up with Raven at all.  Bellamy had found her sitting on the stairs up to the foreign language rooms with tears streaming from her eyes like some sort of high school cliche.  He’d walked away quickly but then came back just as fast, a wad of toilet paper clutched in his fist.

Bellamy had sat down next to her with a sigh.  “You can do better than him,” he said and handed her the toilet paper.  Clarke had sniffled pathetically but accepted it anyway, and Bellamy sat by her side until she had her tears under control.  On Monday they’d returned to their usual antagonism, but she never fully forgot his small moment of kindness.

She parked next to the dumpster behind the station and leaned her forehead on the steering wheel for a few breaths.  “I’m sorry,” she said as she straightened.  “It’s been a rough few days.”  

Bellamy sat back in his seat and closed his eyes.  “I’m sorry too,” he replied.  “I’m just— I’m worried about her.”

The trees surrounding the parking lot were swaying back and forth as the wind picked up, rustling the dying leaves and bending back branches.  “She’s tough,” Clarke said.  “Tough, and smart.  I don’t know if she— I don’t want her to be guilty.  But I do know that she knows how to take care of herself.”

Bellamy nodded and she gave them both ten more seconds of quiet.  “Ready?” she asked.

“Ready.”

 

* * *

 

 

They had beat Harper and Miller into the station and found Monroe looking pale and wan.  “Go home,” Clarke said the moment they walked through the door.  “You look dead on your feet.”

“Only two calls last night,” Monroe said between yawns.  “As usual, Mrs. Carter heard noises outside her trailer and thought it might be the murderer coming for her.  I checked it out— nobody lurking around her place.  Probably just a raccoon.  And Doc Warren wanted to register his annoyance with the teenagers partying out by Smugger's Cove, but they were gone by the time I got there.  And Hannah Green called to let us know that she can help out with Pike’s shifts for the time being.”

“My dad will too,” Miller added as he walked in.  “He said he’ll take Pike’s shift tonight, in fact.”

“Your father is a saint,” Clarke said gratefully.

Clarke was making a fresh pot of coffee when Harper arrived, her hair damp from the rain.  “Is it hitting already?” she asked and Harper shook out her raincoat.  “Just starting,” she said, “but it’s tracking pretty far off the coast.  We’re barely going to get hit at all.”

“There haven’t been any evac orders, right?” Clarke asked and poured the other woman a cup.  She should really have paid more attention to the storm, but the whole “first murder in nearly a decade” thing had eaten up all her time.

“Nope, we’re in the clear.  Maybe some storm surge on the ocean side, but other than that just a hell of a lot of rain and some wind.”

“Good,” Clarke said firmly.  “The last thing we need right now is a full-on hurricane.”  She left the break room to head back to her office, but stopped when she saw the woman sitting nervously near Miller’s desk.  She was a good twenty years older than Clarke and kept smoothing back her long black hair as she talked to Miller, even though hardly a hair seemed out of place.

“Clarke, this is Mary Pike, Charles’ sister,” Miller said when she approached.

Mary jumped up out of her seat and Clarke shook her hand, attempting to cover for the fact that she’d worked with Pike for four years and had no idea he had a sister.  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

“Thank you,” Mary replied.  “I came here because I didn’t know where else to go.  I don’t really know how to deal with all of this.”

“Here, why don’t you come into my office and we can talk,” Clarke said and guided her in.  Bellamy stood up and Clarke shook her head at him, because having him along when she saw Jasper was one thing— he was local, he would understand— but she needed Mary Pike to be at ease.

Mary moved with a slight limp, favoring her right side.  “Are you okay?” Clarke asked and shut the door behind them.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said and settled into the chair across the desk.  “I just twisted my knee chasing after my kids earlier this week.”

“How many kids do you have?”  Clarke wondered what else she didn’t know about Pike, and if that was just him being laconic or hiding something.

“Three,” Mary said, her dark brown eyes darting around the office.  “I’m sorry, I really don’t know what to do,” she confessed.

“That’s understandable,” Clarke said as warmly as she could.  “How much did Officer Miller tell you?”

“He told me that Charles had been murdered.  What— what happened to him?”

“We’re not quite sure yet,” Clarke admitted.  “But it does appear that there was a struggle, so we should be able to get some good physical evidence.”

“Do you have any, um, suspects?”

“We have someone in mind, yes, but I think it’s best to approach this with as open of a mind as possible.”  

Clarke couldn’t help but notice the difference between Pike and his sister— where he was implacable, almost an immoveable force, his sister was all nervous energy and ticks. Mary nodded as Clarke talked, her head bobbing almost frantically.  

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” Clarke asked.

“I guess, sure.”

Clarke grabbed her notebook and found a clean page.  “Were you and Charles close?”

“Not really, no.  We were...estranged.”

“Can I ask why?”

“It was...it was a long time ago.  For lots of reasons.  And a private family matter.”

Clarke kept her face neutral and jotted down a few notes.  “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Charles?  Probably, um, fifteen years ago.  I didn’t even know that Mother had died until last month when I found her obituary online.”  Mary’s hand tugged at her scarf, like it was too tight around her neck.

“Did you know who he was close to?  If he was having money problems?” 

“Like I said, we weren’t— we weren’t close.  I didn’t, um, I didn’t talk to him after I left.  To him or to Mother.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask this next question.  Standard procedure to rule you out as a suspect.  Where were you on Thursday night?”

“In Chapel Hill with my family.”

That would be an easy enough alibi to check out, but Clarke made a mental note to follow up on it anyway.  “Okay, well, since his death was a homicide we had to send him— his remains— for an autopsy.  I can give you the number of the medical examiner’s office, and they will contact you when they can be released if you’d like to arrange a funeral.”

“I— can I take some time to decide?  This is all so sudden,” Mary said, and tears welled up in her eyes.

“Of course.  It should be a few more days at least.  Will you be staying on the island?”

“My husband and I rented a house near the ferry landing.”

“In that case, if you could leave the address and a number where we can contact you with one of my deputies, we’ll be in touch,” Clarke said, and Mary nodded again.

“Thank you,” she said and stood to hurry out the door.  

Clarke emerged from her office when Harper was taking down Mary’s information.  “By the way,” Harper said sweetly and just loud enough for Clarke to hear, “I love your scarf.”

Mary’s hand went back to the bright green scarf around her neck.  “Oh, thank you, dear,” she said, and Clarke waved as Mary left.

“Good call with the scarf,” Clarke said muttered she was safely out of earshot.  

“Think the red one’s hers?” Miller asked.

Clarke mentally sized Mary up.  “It’s possible.  It’s definitely more her style than Octavia’s or Indra’s.”

Miller looked up from his computer.  “We just got an email from the crime scene guys.  They found some long black hair in the living room carpet, and they got a hit on the prints.”

“Octavia’s?” Bellamy guessed.

“They matched it to prints found in her apartment, so yeah.  But we already knew that, since she held it at my throat and shit.  DNA from the hair will take a bit longer.”

Bellamy sank into a nearby empty chair and scrubbed a hand across his face.    “This doesn’t look good for her, does it?” 

“No other prints on the murder weapon?” Clarke asked, her hand coming to rest on Bellamy’s shoulder.  She squeezed it comfortingly, for all the good that would do.

“None,” Miller confirmed.  “But— I mean, if it wasn’t O, whoever it was could have worn gloves.”

“That’s possible,” Clarke said, lost in thought.  “Mary said she hadn’t seen Pike in fifteen years, but the scarf and hairs could belong to her.  But then why lie about not seeing him?”  Clarke chewed on her lower lip in thought.  “Harper, see if you can find Pike’s mother’s will.  It should be on file with the county somewhere, and pull his financials too.  And Miller, look into Mary a little more.  I want to know where she works, where her husband works, if their kids are in private school, if their mortgage is underwater, whatever you can find.”

“Do you really think she could have taken him in a fight?” Miller countered.  “She didn’t really seem like a fighter.  More like...your average mom.”

“Hey, moms can fight,” Harper protested.

“Miller, did you find the neighbors that Monroe couldn’t nail down?” Clarke cut in.

“Most of them.  Most didn’t see anything, but...”

“But what?”

“Nygel claims she saw Indra and Pike fighting on Mecha beach on Wednesday.”

“Do you believe her?”

Miller shrugged.  “It’s Nygel, so I don’t exactly trust her.  But I also don’t think she’d have a reason to lie, you know?  I asked her, she didn't come to us."

“I get it.  For now, keep working on the witness statements.  See if anyone else saw them arguing. And when you're done with that, start looking into his sister.”

“Got it, boss,” Harper said, and everyone went back to work.

* * *

 

Clarke’s eyes started to cross as she sped through the black and white footage of the ferry landing.  She’d requested a week’s worth of footage, which now that it wasn’t tourist season mostly consisted of islanders commuting back and forth from their jobs on the mainland.  She was looking for someone unfamiliar or anything out of the ordinary— anything that would point away from Octavia, even though she really should be keeping an open mind.  She noted the timestamp whenever she saw someone she didn’t recognize, but this time of year there were only a small handful: a family with three children, the mother carrying a cooler and the father hauling what looked like a tent; a dark haired man in his mid-to-late thirties who looked vaguely familiar; two middle-aged businessmen in suits; a hard-faced man around Clarke’s own age; and a teenage girl with her hair in twin braids.  She’d have to call over to the ferry office on the mainland for credit card receipts and hope that if one of them was a murderer, he or she had been dumb enough not to use cash.

Clarke compared her list to the statements Miller had been collecting but no one stood out.  The girl with the braids was probably the visiting granddaughter Mrs. Carter mentioned in her statement, but according to her, she had left the morning of the murder.  Plus, the girl couldn’t have been more than 90 pounds soaking wet— there was no way she could have caused that much damage to Pike’s house.  None of the others made any appearances in the witness statements, although a neighbor the next block down reported seeing a slender woman with a baseball cap and dark clothes walking past their house the night of the murder.  The witness hadn’t gotten more than a glimpse of the woman and had no way of identifying her, but Clarke had the uncomfortable feeling it was probably Octavia.

She looked up at the knock on the door.  “I, uh….think you better come out here,” Harper said.

Clarke followed her into the bullpen to find Bellamy and Miller standing next to each other wearing identical looks of discomfort.  Indra stood in front of them, dripping from the rain, her jaw set with grim determination.  “Can we help you?” Clarke said, since no one else seemed to be talking.

Indra squared her shoulders looked Clarke straight in the eye.  “I’m here for you to arrest me.  I killed Charles Pike.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Everything I know about preparing for a hurricane I learned from an episode of Dawson's Creek. Also, from here on out we're operating on Law and Order rules when it comes to the detective work. By which I mean: nobody needs a warrant for anything and forensic science is basically magic.
> 
> Please do not turn this story for advice on how to survive a hurricane (because you will probably die) or for an accurate representation of proper police procedure and protocols (because you will probably be arrested).


	5. Five

“You killed Charles Pike,” Clarke repeated, not really believing her own ears.

“Yes.  I killed him.”  Indra held her arms out as if asking to be handcuffed.

“That— that won’t be necessary,” Clarke said, motioning to Indra’s wrists.  “Follow me.”  Harper, Miller, and Bellamy exchanged looks behind Indra’s back.  The only sound in the station was the roar of rain pelting the roof and wind whistling around the corners.

Indra trailed her to the interview room where Clarke pulled out the recorder and stated the date and subject for the record.“Indra DuBois, you are under arrest for the murder of Charles Pike.  You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.  You have the right to an attorney, and if you cannot afford one one will be appointed for you.  Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”  

Indra nodded.

"Would you like an attorney present?"

"No."

“Then I will be asking you for a written statement as well, but for now, I would like you to tell me, in your own words and with as much detail as possible, what transpired, keeping in mind that you have waived your right to counsel.”

Indra swallowed and trained her gaze on her hands, folded neatly on the table.  “Charles Pike and I have been in a sexual relationship for the last ten years,” Indra began, and Clarke almost fell out of her chair in shock.  “Or we were, until he arrested my nephew.  That was my necklace you found at his house.  I must have left it there, but after Lincoln was arrested I refused to go back.”

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and continued.  “Thursday night, I went to his house to try and talk to him.  If he wrote to the judge or the parole board, I thought they might show Lincoln leniency.  He refused.  We fought and I stabbed him.  He died.  That’s it.”

“You didn’t meet him at Mecha Beach on Wednesday?  Or talk to him at all on Tuesday?”

“No.  He left a message at the diner saying he wanted to talk to me, but I didn’t return it.”

“And you never asked why he called?”

“I wasn’t interested in hearing his excuses.”

Clarke added a note to verify Nygel’s account of seeing them arguing on the beach.  It seemed odd for Indra to confess to so much but still lie about that argument, but then again it seemed out of character for Indra to be confessing at all.  “So you stabbed him.  With what?” Clarke prompted.

“The machete from my garden shed.”

“And you had that with you because?”

Indra flickered her eyes to her left.  “I brought it with me.  I thought he might need...persuading.”

“So you went to his house with the intention of using violence to convince him?”

“I wanted all my options to be open.”  Indra said all of this with a straight face and no inflection in her voice.  Her hands didn’t shake; she didn’t pause to search for the right words.  She was as cool and collected as Clarke had ever seen her.  It was like she was reading a grocery list instead of confessing to the horrific murder of her former lover.

“And the alibi you provided yesterday?”

“A lie.  I told Fox to lie for me or else I would fire her.”

“How did you escape the fight without any injuries?”

Indra’s eyes snapped to hers for a split second.  “I took krav maga and muay thai for years.  Chuck— Charles was just a boxer.  It was no contest.”

“Can you explain how Octavia was found at the crime scene?”

“She went looking for me.  She knew I was upset and was probably trying to stop me.”

“And what were you wearing that night?”  Clarke asked.

“Jeans and a diner t-shirt. I burned them in my backyard as soon as I got home.”

“That’s it?  No jewelry or accessories?”

“No.”

Clarke made eye contact with Indra for several long moments.  Indra didn’t blink or flinch, just stared back until Clarke stood up.  She held the door open for Indra as they left the interview room.  Bellamy, Miller, and Harper did little to hide their interest, and Clarke walked Indra down to the small holding cell to lock her in.  

She was met with wide eyes when she returned.  “So— she did it?” Bellamy asked.

Clarke grabbed the recorder from the interview room and tipped her head towards her office.  “I think you guys should listen to this,” she said.

Ten minutes later, they were looking at each other with the same dumbfounded looks.  “So, she clearly didn’t do it,” Harper said finally.

Miller furrowed his brow.  “I don’t know— she got a lot of shit right.”

“None of that was hard to guess though,” Harper argued.  “And she said Fox lied for her, but...have you guys ever seen Fox try and tell a lie?  Because I have and she’s not great at it.  Get’s all flushed and stammer-y.”

“She didn’t mention gloves,” Clarke said.  “She said it’s her machete, but she didn’t say anything about wearing gloves or wiping off the prints, even after I gave her an opportunity.”

“And she’s completely uninjured,” Miller added.

“It would be like O to try and protect Indra.  If she found Pike like that and knew that Indra had been planning to talk to him, I could see her trying to take the fall,” Bellamy said.

“But then why run?” Harper asked.  “If she’s trying to take the fall, why not do what Indra’s doing here?  Just come in and confess.”

“Maybe she doesn’t trust you guys after Lincoln,” Bellamy snapped.

“I hate to say it, but...I think it’s more likely Octavia did it and Indra’s covering for her,” Clarke said.  Bellamy stood up in anger but she shook her head.  “I don’t like it any more than you do, but you heard her confession.  She clearly didn’t know how torn up Pike’s place was, because you don’t get out of that without a scratch.  She didn’t know that we only had Octavia’s prints on the murder weapon, because she never said she wore gloves.”

“Maybe she wiped it down before Octavia got there,” Bellamy offered.  “Maybe, just maybe, she forgot a few details because she just shish-kabobed an ex while in a fit of rage.”

“I’m not over the whole they-used-to-bang reveal, personally,” Miller added. 

“So what do we do?” Harper cut in, and Clarke found herself once again faced with three pairs of questioning eyes.

“We keep her overnight.  It’s what she wants, and—”  Clarke stopped, because  _ and it might flush out Octavia  _ was definitely not the right thing to say with Bellamy sitting right there, “— we keep working the case.  It’s not all adding up.  I’ll take home some more of Pike’s old files and see what I can find tonight.”

“I’ll help,” Bellamy said, and Clarke felt a little tension in her shoulders release.  “We can go through them together.”

 

* * *

 

David Miller showed up at eight, shaking out an umbrella that had done little to shield him from the pounding rain.  “You’re here early,” Clarke observed.  

“I know, but Clarke, the road out to your place are flooding over.  If you’re planning on going home tonight, you should leave now.”

Clarke hesitated.  “If it’s getting bad, maybe I should stay.”

“Monroe’s coming in soon and I’ve handled way more hurricanes than you,” the former chief said.  “This one’s not so bad, and I don’t want to get a call because your engine is flooded.  We’ve got this— go home,” he urged.

Clarke and Bellamy took turns running out to her car and loading up the trunk with Pike’s case file boxes, getting wetter and wetter with each trip.  Clarke had just returned when she bumped into Harper in the hall.  “Your phone rang again,” Harper said sourly.  “I don’t understand why you won’t let us just go arrest him.”

“Because he just wants to know he’s gotten to me.  If you go arrest him for calling me too often, he’ll know he has.”

“It’s stalking,” Harper protested.

“It’s nothing, okay?” she said.

She grabbed her keys and waited for Bellamy to say goodbye to Harper, but Miller caught her eye.

“What is it?” she asked, because he looked sick to his stomach.

“The lab just got back to us,” he said lowly, but Bellamy’s head snapped towards them anyway.

“What did they find?” Bellamy asked, a muscle in his jaw fluttering.

“They matched the hairs they found at the scene with some hair from the brush in O’s apartment.”

“Well, we already knew she was at the scene,” Bellamy said.

“Yeah, except—” Miller looked between them uncertainly and then visibly braced himself.  “They found blood on some glass fragments near the body.  It matches the DNA in the hair.”  Bellamy’s lips pursed together to make a thin white line, but Miller wasn’t done.  “There’s some other blood samples, but they’re cross-contaminated with Pike’s.”

Clarke didn’t want to say it, but she did anyway.  “So all the physical evidence at the scene points to Octavia.”

Bellamy’s eyes flashed and he was out the door before she could stop him.  She ran out after him, instantly regretting her decision.  The wind sent the rain almost sideways, pelting her face and chilling her to the bone in seconds.  Bellamy was just around the corner, facing the cream brick wall of the station.

She called out his name but it was lost under the roar of the storm.  She watched him punch the wall savagely, only to draw back his hand and suck on his knuckles.  “It might not be her,” Clarke tried again as she approached him.

Bellamy rounded on her, his hair plastered to his forehead and anger contorting his face.  “But you think it is,” he yelled.  “Someone else fucking confessed, but you still think my sister is a murderer.”

“She ran,” Clarke replied, trying to keep her tone even and soothing.  “And the evidence— no matter what Indra says, the evidence doesn’t point to her. But—”

“I trusted you,” Bellamy spat.  “I don’t care what the evidence says.  Octavia didn’t do it.  She wouldn’t.”

“I don’t want her to be guilty,” Clarke said, taking a step towards Bellamy.  “But—”

“She’s all I have,” Bellamy shouted.  “She’s all I have, and you want to put her in jail.”

“No I don’t,” Clarke yelled back.  She was done trying to placate him, not if he was determined to make her the bad guy.  “I’m trying to find the truth.  I can’t change the evidence, and we’re not railroading her.  Not a single fucking person in that station  _ wants  _ your sister to be guilty.  It’s not my fucking fault her DNA is all over the crime scene.  I didn’t make her hold a goddamn sword to your best friend’s throat, and I certainly didn’t make her run.  If she’d just come to me—”

“— You’d what, take care of her the way you took care of Lincoln?  I’m sure that’s a real comfort,” he snarled.

“If I’m so fucking incompetent, why did you come to me, huh?  Why, when you found out your sister might be in trouble, did you come straight to me?  I don’t want to put an innocent woman in jail, but that goes for Indra too.  I won’t frame someone else to let your sister go free.”  Clarke was standing nose to nose with Bellamy, their arms crossed in mirror images of frustration.  She stared at him until he suddenly deflated, tears welling up in his dark brown eyes.  She felt a stab of guilt and reached out a hesitant hand.  She touched his forearm, strong and warm under the wet shirt.  “I don’t want to hurt Octavia,” she said gently.  “But I have to do my job.”

Bellamy didn’t flinch away from her, just trapped her hand underneath his nodded.  “I know,” he admitted.  He blinked away the rain streaming into his eyes.  “That’s why I— that’s why I came to you.  I knew you’d— you’d do everything you could to find who’s responsible.  But it can’t be her, Clarke, it can’t be.  If she’s arrested— I can’t watch her be caged like that.”

“If she’s innocent, I promise I’ll clear her name.” 

“I know.  I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes on their hands.

“I know,” she repeated.  She looked at him, wondering how, in just two days, she’d come to care this much.  They were practically strangers— and as of yesterday, she didn’t even like him that much—  but now the thought of him being in pain, or worried, or scared cut down so deep inside of her it frightened her.  She wondered if she really was willing to let a possible murderer go free just so she didn’t have to see the pain in his eyes. She stepped away, breaking the spell between them.  “But we should go if we’re going to get back to my place before the roads wash away.”

She had just reached the car when he spoke again.  “Thanks,” he said quietly.  

Clarke turned, and once again the fear in his eyes went straight to her heart.  Without thinking, she lurched forward and pulled him into a hug.  He didn’t react for a second, but then he was wrapping his arms around her and hugging back.  “We’ll get through this,” she said, although she wasn’t sure how they had become a  _ we  _ so quickly.  His nose was buried in the crook of her neck, and she was freezing and soaking wet.  “I’ll protect her,” Clarke vowed, even though she wasn’t sure she could. But right now, in this moment, Clarke only wanted to wipe the fear out of Bellamy’s eyes.  So she made a promise and hoped against all hope that she could keep it.

 

* * *

 

 

Night was falling fast.  The fading fall sunset had been swallowed entirely by thick storm clouds, and Clarke’s wipers worked over time, whipping back and forth across her windshield as they crept down the almost-flooded roads.  Wind lashed the trees and on more than one occasion she had to swerve into the opposite lane to avoid a fallen branch.  Bellamy cranked up the heat to keep them from shivering in their waterlogged clothes, and Clarke was looking forward to a long, hot shower and a dry set of pajamas.

Flashing brake lights up ahead caught her eye, and Clarke started to slow.  “Sorry,” she told Bellamy, who was huddled up near the heating vent in a vain attempt to stay warm.  “But I can’t leave somebody out here on a night like this.”  She pulled over and grabbed her radio.  “I’ve got a disabled car on County Road 13, mile marker 2,” she reported.  “Rental plates, so probably not a local.  I’m going to see if I can provide assistance, but if not be advised that there will be an abandoned car at this location.”

Monroe’s voice broke through with a hiss of static.  “Copy that.  Need me to call Raven for a tow?”

Clarke squinted, but couldn’t make out much more than a blurry shape crouching near the front wheel of the pickup truck.  “Negative.  I think it’s just a flat.  No reason to drag her out in this weather.  I can handle it.”  She unhooked her seatbelt and turned to Bellamy.  “Sorry, this shouldn’t take too long.”

“Want me to help?”

“If it’s just a flat I can change that pretty quick for them, and if it’s something with the engine we’ll just drive them back to town.  Shouldn’t take too long, and there’s no reason for both of us to be out in this.”

Clarke left her radio and holster in the car and opened her door.  It nearly blew back off its hinges with the force of the gusting wind and she struggled to slam it shut.  “Need a hand?” she called to the man who was just out of the reach of her headlights.  Rain slashed down on them both and she jogged over to him.  

He was looking away from her as she approached, the hood of his jacket shielding his face from her.  “If it’s a flat, it’s your lucky day because I’m—” she started, but then he turned and her stomach dropped.  

“Not so lucky now, are you?” a horribly familiar voice sneered.  She hadn’t listened to his messages in weeks, but she would never forget the timbre of his voice.  It was burned into her brain, and the shock of seeing him in person drove all thought from her head.  Something black and shiny appeared in his hand, the barrel pointed straight at her heart.

She barely had a chance to turn back towards her car— to warn Bellamy, to tell him to run, to scream for him to call for backup— when Emerson slammed the butt of his gun into her temple.

And then the world went black.  

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so that's one mystery solved. Or is it two? ;)


	6. Six

Rain slapping against hard plastic brought Clarke back into consciousness.  A tooth-jarring jolt finished the job and her senses snapped back into place.  The pickup truck took a hard left turn and she crashed into Bellamy, elbows and knees clacking together.  Her hands were bound behind her back with smooth rope, just like his, and her feet were tied so she couldn’t brace herself when the truck hit another pothole.  The next turn had Bellamy rolling to face her and a streetlight lit his pale, terrified countenance before darkness bled back over them.  “Are you okay?” he asked over the howl of the wind as the truck began to climb a hill.  

“I’m fine,” she grunted and tried to twist her arms around so she could use her hands.  Emerson clearly hadn’t searched her, because she could feel her father’s old pocket knife pressed between her hip and the truck bed.  If she could get it out, they’d have a chance of sawing through the ropes, but no sooner had that thought appeared than the truck came to an abrupt stop.

Clarke scooted down towards the lift gate on her back, and the second it flipped down she launched her feet forward as hard as she could.  Emerson spun out of the way just in time and she only managed to land a glancing blow to his shoulder.

The gun was back in his hands before she could regroup and he hauled Bellamy up to a sitting position.  “Careful,” Emerson warned and pressed the gun to Bellamy’s head.  “You try that again, he dies.”  Clarke stopped squirming immediately, her eyes on Bellamy’s, willing him to stay calm.

Emerson dropped Bellamy to the muddy gravel beneath them and dragged her out of the truck by her hair.  Her scalp felt like it was being torn off her skull, and she got a face full of runny, slick clay when she landed.  Tiny stones dug into her cheek and crunched beneath Emerson’s feet as he prowled around them.  “Who is this?” Emerson asked, toeing a struggling Bellamy in the stomach.  “I thought you’d be alone, but then this one appeared out of nowhere.  I could have killed him right there, but he seemed so determined to save you that I thought it’d be more poetic for you to watch him die.”

“He’s no one,” Clarke blurted.  “Just a tourist.  I was giving him a ride home.  I never saw him before tonight.  You can let him go— I’ll come quietly.”  Her vision blurred, either from tears or the rain, and Emerson tipped his head to the side disbelievingly.

“No one, huh?”  His fingers gripped her arm like a vise and a cold metal circle pressed against her temple.  “So he won’t care if I kill you right here.”

“He won’t.  Do it,” she said coldly even though she was trembling.  

“Clarke, no!” The words were wrenched from Bellamy in a desperate scream, and Emerson grinned in triumph.

He tucked the gun back into his waistband.  “That’s what I thought,” Emerson snarled, and then he was dragging her— by her arm this time, not her hair— up a short flight of stairs, across a threshold, and then down the hall of an abandoned house.  Dust coated the floors and mildew warred with must in her nose, and then she was jouncing down another flight of stairs to land on cold, damp cement.  When her eyes adjusted she found she was in a tiny basement— a cellar, really— with only a few empty shelves and pipes for decoration.  Everything else was bare concrete except for slanted wooden doors that opened to the backyard, with nothing to help her place them or break out.  She could hear the roar of giant waves crashing against the rocks and tried to recreate Emerson’s turns on the way, but she came up short.  The best she could guess was they were in a summer rental, which meant most of the other houses around them were probably rentals too.  That meant no neighbors to be roused by shouting, and no witnesses for whatever Emerson had planned.

Bellamy landed next to her a short while later with a grunt.  “I’m sorry,” he gasped.  The door at the top of the stairs clicked shut.  “I panicked, I shouldn’t—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupted.  “There’s a pocket knife in my front left pocket.  Roll to your side— I’ll face you and you get it out, okay?”

It took a few minutes of squirming, but Bellamy managed to extract the knife from her hip pocket and flick it open.  It was another minute or two before the rope around her wrists gave way, and she undid the rope around her feet hastily before turning to Bellamy’s bonds.  Then she was sprinting up the main stairs to pound on the door.  It was solid and heavy, locked and hinged from the outside.  She ran over to the other door, two slabs of wood set on a sharp angle above another short flight of stairs.  She strained and Bellamy put his shoulder into it, but it was no use— it must have been barred on the other side.

They were trapped.

“What is this guy, a Bond villain?” Bellamy grumbled over her shoulder.  

Clarke sank down on the stairs and buried her face in her hands.  “I’m so sorry,” she said.  “I’m so sorry you got mixed up in this.”

Bellamy sat next to her.  “Who is he?  I assume he's the one stalking you?”

Clarke nodded, trying to answer his questions and figure out a way out of this at the same time.  “He was a mainland police officer— Mount Weather.  I pulled him over on the shore highway going seventy in a fifty-five and weaving all over the road.  He begged me to let him go with a warning, but his BAC was three times the legal limit.”

“And that warrants killing you how?”

Clarke shook her head and walked back down into the basement, searching for an option.  If they could dismantle the shelves they might be able to ram one of the doors, but if Emerson had even a half a brain he’d be waiting for them before— well, before he did whatever it was he wanted to do.  “It ruined his life.  He lost his job and his pension, and his wife took their kids and left.  He blamed me, and for the past six months he’s been...angry.”

“You don’t say,” Bellamy said drily.

“Hush,” Clarke ordered, her ears picking up a noise that wasn’t part of the storm.  It was quiet; soft, almost sibilant.  Now that she was focusing on it, the hissing became more obvious, emitted from a broken pipe in the far corner of the cellar.

Bellamy wrinkled his nose and the scent hit her too.  “Is that—”

“Gas,” she said at the same time.  “Shit.  Shit shit shit.”  Emerson had a plan all right, and that was to let them suffocate.  “Get low.  It’s lighter than air, so if we stay down we’ll have more time,” she ordered, and Bellamy dropped to the floor immediately.

“What about that?” he asked and pointed to a spot behind her.  

Clarke whirled and there, behind the rickety metal shelves, was a tiny window.  It was so cloudy with dust it almost matched the concrete walls, but if the water pattering against it was any indication, it at least wasn’t buried under dirt.

Hope bloomed in her chest.  “We have to move those shelves, but carefully.  One spark and this whole place will blow.”

Bellamy nodded and together they lifted the shelving unit, which was far heavier than she thought it’d be.  They set it down a foot away with a loud clank, and Clarke blinked back the encroaching dizziness.  Bellamy leaned heavily against the cement block wall, looking in even worse shape.

_ Dammit.   _ The gas was building up faster than she’d thought— they had to get out soon or there wouldn’t be any oxygen left.

The window was too small for Bellamy to fit through but too high for her to reach, so Clarke ripped off her flannel shirt and handed it to him.  Wordlessly— either because he knew exactly what she intended or because he didn’t want to waste precious air on talking— he wrapped it around his fist and punched.  Black spots blossomed before her eyes and she tried to take a breath, but it felt like she was underwater.  Her lungs strained with effort and panic started to build.

The glass shattered on the third hit and Bellamy wiped the sill clear.  “Be careful,” he whispered and boosted her up.

Her shoulders just barely fit through the rotted wood frame, but then she was outside.  She gulped for air, cold, wet rain plastering her hair down as slowly, oxygen returned to her system.  Clarke allowed herself two heartbeats for her muscles to solidify, and then she was off, keeping to the shadows as she darted forward.

Emerson was standing in front of the house, rain slashing through the bright white lights from his truck.  She could only see his silhouette, pouring something out into the driveway, and she crouched down to consider her options.  She had no gun, and the pocket knife was far too small to do any real damage.  She needed get him contained, and fast, because with only the tiny window open Bellamy didn’t have much time.  She felt around her feet for something— a rock, a loose shingle,  _ anything _ — and her fingers closed over something round, wooden, and smooth in the soaking wet grass.  She picked up the broken rake, testing its balance, and then she noticed a flicker of light in front of Emerson.

He was toying with a lighter, trying to get it to spark in the pouring rain.

She stopped thinking and ran, taking a few precious seconds to skirt wide of the light beaming from his headlights, and swung the wooden handle into the side of his head as hard as she could.  He dropped to the ground, boneless, and she rifled through his pockets, searching for a key and coming up empty.  She didn’t have time to restrain him— not when Bellamy might be suffocating right that very second— so she left him there in the circle of light and ran, tucking the gun into her waistband.  The front door was locked so she jumped over the porch railing on the side of the house, sinking into her knees as she landed.  Wind gusted off the ocean and stole what little breath she had.

The cellar door wasn’t locked, just barred with a thick cross-beam of oak.  She strained against it until it pulled free, and then she threw her weight into hauling the door open.

Bellamy was slumped against the wall underneath the window.  Clarke ran to him, screaming his name, but his eyelids didn’t even flicker.  She gripped him under his armpits and heaved, inching him across the room as her muscles screamed in protest.  She struggled to breathe, the open door letting just enough gas escape that she managed to stay conscious.  Bellamy’s body dragged after her slowly, and she pulled him up the stairs, fueled by pure adrenaline and fear.

She collapsed just outside the cellar door.  Bellamy laid next to her, his eyes closed, and she felt for a pulse with shaking hands.  For a moment she felt nothing, and the ground seemed to drop out from under her, but then there it was— a steady drumming underneath her fingertips.

Clarke sighed in relief just as a body slammed into her from the side.  

Emerson’s momentum had her pinned.  His knees pressed on her chest and his mouth contorted with anger, but she managed to shift his weight and topple him to the side.  She elbowed his face, his nose bursting with a sickening crunch, but then his hands grabbed her shoulders and he flipped her into the soft, muddy ground, pinning her again.  He grabbed for her gun and she knocked it from his hand, sending it skittering across the wet grass and out of their reach.  Emerson's hands went to her throat instead, rough and tight and terrifying. For the second time that night, Clarke’s lungs strained for air and black spots popped in front of her eyes.  She scratched at his face, clawing for his eyes, and then scrabbled in the grass, her arms growing weaker by the second as panic set in.  She hit her knuckles on something hard and slick and grabbed it, hammering it into Emerson’s temple with all her fading strength.

He went down again, slumping over her like a sack of wet cement.  Blood trickled from his forehead and Clarke dropped the rock to fight against his limp weight.  She managed to shove him off, and gulping for air she ripped her belt off her waist.  She wasn’t taking chances this time, so she forced herself to secure his wrists with the thin leather strap and tuck the gun back her waistband before she turned back to Bellamy.

“Wake up,” she croaked, crouching over him.  “Please— you’ve got to— you can’t— please, wake up,” she pleaded, and her tears joined the rain splattering his face.  She could still smell the gas as it leaked out of the door and dissipated, faint but pungent.

Bellamy's eyes fluttered and then they were open, cloudy with confusion while a gentle smile spread across his face.  He swept a bedraggled lock of hair behind her ear and his hand came up to cup her cheek. 

“You’re okay,” she said over and over again, smiling through her tears and trapping his palm against her cheek.  “You’re okay.  We’re safe.”

His eyes cleared and he bolted upright.  “Where is he?  Where’s—” he stopped at the sight of Emerson, prone and bound off to their left.  Just like that his shoulders relaxed and Bellamy slumped against her, pinning their foreheads together.  “You’re okay,” Bellamy echoed, like he was trying to convince himself, and she curled her hand around the base of his neck.  He did the same to her, ragged breaths mixing together as relief washed over them both.  “It’s over.”

Emerson moaned, and Clarke drew on her remaining strength to push herself up and slap Emerson’s gun into Bellamy’s hands.  “If he tries anything, shoot him in the leg,” she ordered, and scrambled back through the slick, tall grass to Emerson’s truck.  Inside she found her gun, but not her radio or phone.  She searched under the seats, feeling blindly until her fingers found smooth plastic.

She pulled out Emerson’s burner phone and dialed the station’s number rather than bothering with nine-one-one, which would have routed her to Roan and the state patrol first.  She didn’t have time to wait to be transferred back, and Roan wouldn't be able to get across in the storm.  The ring tone trilled once, then twice, and then Monroe’s voice came through the line, low and clear and crisp.  “Arkadia Police Department—” Monroe started, but Clarke cut her off.

“It’s Clarke,” she rasped, her voice hoarse from Emerson’s attack.  “I’ve got—”

“Clarke, where are you?” Monroe shouted.  “Raven found your car, keys in it and everything, and—”

“It was Emerson,” she interrupted.  “He took us.  Me and Bellamy.  We’re—” she looked around for a landmark until she caught a glimpse of a house down near the curving highway.  “I don’t have an address, but we’re out by the shore.  Ocean side, I think.  One of the summer rentals, on top of a hill.  White house with blue one down near the road.  He’s subdued, but we’re— we’re in rough shape.”  Clarke started stumbling back towards Bellamy, feeling more secure with her own gun back in her hands, and pressed the phone to her ear.  “And be careful.  There’s a gas leak,” she warned, and listened Monroe relaying her location to someone in the station.

“Help is on the way,” Monroe promised.  “Do you need me to stay on the line?  Or send an ambulance?”

“We’re bad but not that bad,” Clarke coughed.  “I promise.  Thanks.”

“Of course,” Monroe said warmly.  “Hang in there.  They’re coming.”

Bellamy had scooted away from the house and was sitting against a tree, the gun trained on Emerson a few yards away.  Emerson was still moaning but not moving enough to worry her, so she sank down next to Bellamy. He shifted to give her a little more of the trunk to lean on and rested the gun in his lap.  “They’re on their way,” she told him.

“You okay?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Nothing’s broken, as far as I can tell.  I’ll live.  You?”

“The same.”  

Clarke leaned her head against his shoulder and he pressed his cheek to it, and there they sat, guns drawn, until the faint scream of sirens reached them.

The squad car pulled up first with Raven’s tow truck right behind it.  Tires squelched in the mud and the two Miller men sprinted over to them.

“He’s over there,” Clarke said, too tired to stand, and David went to deal with Emerson while Nathan crouched before them.  Raven hurried from her truck with a toolbox, heading for the side of the house with her uneven stride.

“Anything broken?” Nathan asked, and they both shook their heads.

“Nothing major,” Clarke responded.

“She lost consciousness though,” Bellamy countered.  “When he first got us.”

Raven came running back to Nathan’s side.  “The gas is off,” she told them, and then knelt down, her hand reaching out for Clarke.  “What the fuck happened?” her friend asked, panic lurking just underneath her angry concern.  Raven’s brow creased and she looked at Bellamy.  “Are you okay?  Seriously, what the fuck happened?  I found your car when Monroe called in a disabled vehicle, and—”

“I told her not to call that in,” Clarke interrupted.  

Raven scoffed.  “That’s definitely the point of this story,” she said.  “Are you guys hurt?  Do I need to take you to the hospital?”

In front of them, David Miller hauled a newly-handcuffed Emerson to his feet.  “He might have a concussion,” Clarke called.  “Or two.  I hit him pretty hard.”  

Nathan nodded grimly.  “We’ll have Emori meet us at the station to check him out. Raven, you got this?”

“I’m taking them straight to Saint Joe’s and Abby,” Raven answered.  “Can you guys stand?”

“I don’t need—” Clarke started, but a sharp look from Raven cut her off.  She let Raven help her to her feet and rested against the tree while Raven hoisted Bellamy up, and then together the three of them lurched across the yard to Raven’s truck.

Clarke leaned against Bellamy’s shoulder in the backseat.  She was coated in mud and they were both soaked to the bone, but they were alive.  The rain quieted a little when Raven closed the door and turned the engine over, and she carefully drove them down the steep driveway and back out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...firing a gun where there's a gas leak is probably a terrible idea, but I liked the line "if he tries anything shoot him in the leg" too much to take it out, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. Just don't try this at home kids, okay?
> 
> Also, being unconscious like Clarke was is SUPER BAD for you. But this is fiction, so again:   
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leaning hard into that M rating now.

Wind rattled the boards against her windows and Clarke cracked a bleary eye open.  Her head ached, and when she brushed her fingers against where Emerson had slammed his gun into her skull, she winced.  The flesh was tender and swollen there, and her shoulders and arms were stiff from dragging Bellamy’s limp body across the floor.  It hurt to swallow, and her head gave an angry throb when she sat up.

But she was alive, and so was Bellamy.  Emerson was safely locked away at the station, and while Clarke wished he wasn’t so close to Indra— whose guilt she still doubted— for the moment everyone was safe.  She swung her feet to the floor and stumbled over the scrubs her mother had found for her to change into at the hospital.  Abby fussed over them both for several hours before agreeing to let them go home, and when Clarke emerged from the exam room and found Bellamy waiting for her in similarly ill-fitting scrubs it was like an enormous weight had been lifted off her shoulders.  

He had put his arm around her as they followed Raven to where she’d left Clarke’s car in the hospital parking lot.  Clarke drove him back to her house, deliberately taking an alternate route to avoid the spot where Emerson had ambushed them.  She had just enough energy to shower and rinse the dried mud and grass from her hair before collapsing into her bed, relieved to know that Bellamy was doing the same just downstairs.

Clarke squinted through the dim light until she found a navy hooded sweatshirt to pull over her tanktop, and she padded slowly down to the kitchen.  She could hear him before she rounded the corner, pans clattering against the stove and the refrigerator closing with a soft  _ thump _ .

Bellamy was already fully dressed in jeans and a grey cable knit sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he cooked.  He turned at the sound of her footsteps and smiled faintly.  “Hope scrambled eggs and toast is okay,” he said, pulling two plates from her cabinet and dividing up the eggs.  She nodded and without any hesitation stepped into his arms.  

She burrowed into his chest and his arms wrapped around her back, his cheek coming down to rest on the top of her head.  A vague part of her wondered how he could have gone from unwelcome intruder to  _ this _ in barely three days, but she didn’t really feel like examining it. “Thank you,” he whispered after several minutes of them clinging to each other in the middle of her kitchen.  

“For what?” she asked, tipping her head up without leaving the warmth of his embrace.

“For saving my life.”

She stepped back and shrugged.  “Consider it payback.  I owed you,” she said, turning to grab two mugs from the cabinet above her coffee maker.

She felt his eyes on her back but didn’t turn around, fussing unnecessarily with the coffee.  “What are you talking about?”  he asked.

“That day out near Mecha Beach.  I got caught in a riptide and you— you swam out after me.”

“Oh,” he said, shifting uncomfortably.  Clarke set his mug down near the other place setting on her breakfast bar and he joined her.  “I figured I sort of...destroyed any goodwill that might have earned me by being a total dick to you in high school.”

Clarke laughed and then immediately winced when her throat twinged in protest.  “You were a huge dick most of the time,” she agreed.  “But now we’re even, I’d say.”

She glanced over at her kitchen table, currently covered with boxes of old files.  “How long have you been up?” she asked, because they’d left those in her car last night, too exhausted to bother hauling them in.

“A while,” he said, avoiding her eyes.  They ate in silence for a few moments, but Bellamy kept looking at her out of the corner of his eye.  Finally, he set his fork down.  “Those must hurt,” he said and motioned toward her neck.

Clarke fisted the front of her sweatshirt in her hand and ducked her chin down to hide the angry bruises left by Emerson’s hands.  They encircled most of her neck, a hideous reminder of his hatred.  “A bit,” she admitted, and silence fell again.  She reached out and took Bellamy’s left hand in hers, squeezing it gently.  “We’ll get through this,” she told him.  “I promise.”  And there it was again— the fact that somehow, they had become a  _ we _ .  And it didn’t even bother her in the slightest.

“Thanks,” he said with his eyes on his plate.  He squeezed her hand back and they lapsed back into a comfortable silence as they ate.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’ve got you on speaker, Miller,” Clarke said and laid her phone down.  The squad had unanimously agreed that Clarke and Bellamy were banned from the station on account of almost being murdered the night before, but her deputies couldn’t keep them from working from her living room.  Bellamy stepped over a spread of papers to take a seat next to her on the couch. 

“Did you get the email I sent?” Miller asked, and Clarke grabbed her laptop from the coffee table.

“Just got it,” she confirmed and opened the attachment.  “What are we looking at?”

“It’s a screenshot from the ferry footage.  See that person up in the lefthand corner?”

Clarke squinted at the blurry image and Bellamy did the same.  It was a woman, she could tell that, although her face was hard to make out and she was partially hidden by two men in the foreground. She was short, with long dark hair.  “Is that Mary?” Bellamy asked.

“I think so,” Miller replied.  “I called the ferry operator, and a Mary Pike charged a roundtrip ticket on Tuesday.  So either it’s a hell of a coincidence, or she lied to us.  But— here’s where it gets weird.  His mom died over the winter, right?”

Clarke thought back.  Pike hadn’t been very forthcoming about his personal life, but she was pretty sure he’d requested a few days off in February to handle the funeral and close up her estate.  “It was before Valentine’s Day, I’m pretty sure,” she said.

“Right, and the money for the kitchen remodel was from her, yeah?”

“I think so?  I don’t think he said that, but it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“It does.  Except Harper pulled his financials and the will, and after taxes it looks like he was going to get around $20,000. But he didn't file the paperwork until this week.”

“Okay, well, he could have saved up for the remodel.  Or just went ahead and did it because he knew the money was coming,” Clarke pointed out reasonably.  “That’s not like, unheard of.  Where are you going with this?”

“Mary lied to us— she said she hadn’t seen him in fifteen years, but a few days before he dies, she comes back to the island?  And there’s family money in the balance?”

“Did Pike have a will?”

“Not that I could find.  And she’s not in their mother’s will at all, but without a will everything Pike had will go to her, including the inheritance.”

“How’s she looking financially?” Bellamy asked.

Miller rustled some papers on the other side of the line.  “It looks like she’s a part time administrative assistant for a small-time law firm, and her husband is a nurse at a hospital up in Chapel Hill.  Three kids, all in public school.  They rent a duplex in a cheaper part of town.  No major debts, but an inheritance….twenty grand isn’t going to make them millionaires, but I bet it’d go pretty far, not to mention whatever Pike’s house is worth.”

“Any sign of her husband?  Either on the ferry landing footage or the credit card receipts?” Clarke asked.

“Nothing so far.  But the ferry isn’t the only way on or off the island.”

Now it was Clarke’s turn to sigh, and she looked over at Bellamy.  “Anything else?”

“Crime scene guys said they found some bloody footprints.  Some are small, women’s size seven.”

“So Octavia or Indra,” Clarke guessed.

“That’s what I’m thinking.  There’s also some of mine, but then there’s one set unaccounted for.   Men’s size eleven.”

“Who were the EMTs on scene?  Emori and Otan, right?”

“Right,” Miller replied.  “I checked with them.  Emori wears a size eight and Otan’s a giant with size thirteens.”

“And they’re sure about the size?”

“Positive.”

“Good to know— keep calling around to people who were on the scene that night and see if it was just someone being sloppy, but if not...I might need you to bring Mary’s husband to come in for questioning.  Is that it?” 

“No, one last thing,” Miller said.  “I was looking at Pike’s checking account, and around January he started getting deposits from Acme Insurance Company.  Once a month, $1,500 each.  Any idea what that’s about?”

“What?” Clarke asked.  “You’re sure?”

“Positive.  Every month on the first.  Think he was moonlighting as like, security or something?  I can’t really see him being an insurance broker on the down low, you know?”

“Where’s the company registered?”

“North Carolina.  But I can’t really find anything else about them— they’ve got a PO Box in Raleigh, but I can’t find any other information on them.”

“That is weird.  Keep looking into that,” Clarke replied.  “And thanks for letting me know.  Mind sending over the credit card receipts from the ferry?  I want to take a look and see if any names stand out.”

“Sure thing,” Miller said and hung up.

 

* * *

 

 

“That payment from the insurance company is bothering me,” Bellamy said several hours later.  

Clarke reached for glass of wine she had sitting near her elbow and took a sip.  The candle next to it flickered, the power having gone out a an hour ago like it usually did during storms like these.  “He might have just been moonlighting like Miller suggested.  Having a second job isn’t a crime.”  Wind shrieked around the eaves and outside the waves were pounding against the beach, but inside it was...nice.  Almost cozy. Or as cozy as investigating a murder could be.

“Do you really pay them that poorly?” he asked with half a smirk.

Clarke chuckled.  “He was almost twenty years in— he probably made close to what I do,” she said.  “But maybe.  He didn’t really talk much about his personal life, especially not— especially not since Lincoln.  So maybe he just felt like keeping busy or something.  Or he just wanted to make some extra money.”

“For an insurance company that doesn’t seem to exist except on paper?”  Bellamy asked, and Clarke frowned.  He had a point— Pike really wasn’t the desk job type, and without a premises, that ruled out him working as security.

“Was there anything strange about him at work?  Was he being shifty?” Bellamy pressed.

“Shifty?  What are you, eighty?”

Bellamy rolled his eyes good naturedly.  “You know what I mean.  Did he seem different after January?  Jumpy?”

Clarke thought back.  “Not that I noticed.  He seemed pretty much the same as always— kind of obsessed with the rules, you know?”  She picked up a stack of papers from the floor and tapped them on the table to line up the edges.  “There was an abandoned boat that he was going on about over the winter.  He kept trying to find the owner, but it was never reported stolen as far as we could tell. That was it.”

“What was your read on it?”

“Probably just kids, seeing as he found it out near Smuggler’s Cove,” she said.  

Bellamy snorted, his eyes taking on a far away look.  “I remember going out there in high school,” he said.  “You?”

Clarke straightened and flipped a lock of hair back over her shoulder.  “I was the town princess, remember?  I wouldn’t have been caught dead out there,” she preened before breaking into giggles.  “Of course I did.  You have to make out at Smuggler’s Cove at least once, or you’re not a real Arkadian.”

“Just make out, huh?  Amateur,” he laughed, and Clarke punched his shoulder in retaliation.

When they settled down, she picked up photo from the ferry landing she’d printed out earlier.  It was tucked underneath the bowl containing the remnants of spaghetti that she’d cooked for them a few hours before.  “Do you recognize this man?” she asked, pointing to the two men in the foreground.  Their faces were much clearer than Mary’s, and the dark haired man was gesturing forcefully with his right hand.

Bellamy squinted at the picture and held his flashlight a little away from it.  “The guy on the right or the left?”

“The Asian guy.”

“Racist,” he teased, earning a small chuckle from her.  “I don’t think I know him, but the guy he’s yelling at is Dax.”

“Dax?”  The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

“Yeah.  Dax...Engle-something.  Engleman?  Yeah, I think that’s it.  He was my year in high school.  Real jackass.”

“I don’t remember him at all,” Clarke confessed.  “He’s a local?”

“I don’t think he was born here, but he definitely went to high school here for awhile.  I don’t think he graduated though.”

“Moved away?”

“Or dropped out.  He wasn’t too bright.”

“Where did he live?”

“Trailer park, I think.  I didn’t exactly hang out with him though.”

Clarke plucked the picture from his hands.  “So that’s Dax, but I swear I’ve seen the other guy before.  Like, on TV or something.”

“News reporter, maybe?”

“Maybe.”  She dropped the picture and dug the heels of her palms into her eyes until she saw stars.  “I feel like we’re getting nowhere,” she whined.

“Then let’s take a break,” Bellamy suggested.

“And do what?” she asked.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a hurricane outside and a possible murderer on the loose.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes at her and reached for his own wine glass.  “We could just, you know, talk about something that isn’t the murder.  We are well-rounded humans, after all.”

“Speak for yourself,” she said, and with a laugh slid down to the floor from the couch.  “Okay.  Talk.”  Bellamy looked at her, and an awkward silence hung in the air.  “God, I have to do everything, don’t I?” she mock-grumbled.  “Let’s play um...Never Have I Ever.”

“You want to play a drinking game?” he asked.  “What are we, nineteen?”

“It's better than being a grandpa.  And you’re the one that wanted to talk.”  

Bellamy sat down on the floor next to her, his back resting against the couch.  “Fine.  You start.”

“Okay, um….oh, here we go.  Never have I ever been a total dick about Arkadia because I’m incapable of letting go of grudges.”

Bellamy shot her a dirty look and took a sip of red wine.  “Never have I ever been a spoiled princess.”  Clarke stared him down, arching one eyebrow.  Her glass stayed untouched on the coffee table until he broke.  “Fine.  Never have I ever been the child of the town mayor.”

Clarke obediently took a sip.  “Never have I ever had sex with a man,” she said, taking a healthy gulp to punctuate her question.  It was Bellamy’s turn to stare her down.  Without blinking he deliberately raised his glass and took a sip.  “Wait, really?” she asked.

“This is Never Have I Ever, not Never Have I Ever And Here’s An Explanation,” he countered.

“Fine.  Your turn.”

Bellamy dropped his head back against the couch.  “Um...okay, hold on.  Let me think,” he said, taking an absent sip of wine.  Clarke turned to face him more fully, her cheek resting against the cushion.  Bellamy shifted and smiled, his skin taking on the warm tone of reflected candlelight.  He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and her heart did a little stutter step.  The sounds of the hurricane seemed to fade away and her breath caught in her throat.

She tipped her head forward and then hesitated.  She bit her lip, and when Bellamy leaned forward she knew she wasn’t wrong and closed the last few inches.  She met his lips in a soft kiss, and when his hand curved around her jaw she opened her mouth to let his tongue slip in.  She moved closer to deepen the kiss and his other hand tangled itself in her hair.  Clarke bumped her elbow against the coffee table and they both chuckled, their lips barely parting.

Bellamy helped steady her as she swung her leg over his to straddle him, and then she was kissing him again, his face in her hands.  He brought his knees up so she was entirely engulfed by him and she pressed forward, tipping his head back against the couch.

Bellamy’s hands skimmed up her hips and settled at her waist, his fingers playing with the hem of her shirt.  She kissed down his jaw, a few days worth of stubble rasping under her tongue, and his hands crept up under her shirt, palming her lower back.  He made a small sound akin to a moan when she drew his earlobe between her teeth, and she smirked a little  when she drew back and raised her arms to let him peel off her shirt.

But her triumph was short lived, because the moment his mouth found her clavicle she groaned. The wool of his sweater scratched at her skin so she tugged it off impatiently, laughing with delight at the way his hair stood up from the static.  She had just started working on his buttons when Bellamy’s hands came to rest over hers.  “Upstairs?” he asked, candlelight glinting in his eyes.

Clarke smiled broadly. “Upstairs,” she agreed.  He blew out the candles on the coffee table and she snuffed out the ones on the end table.  Complete darkness fell, and Bellamy took her hand she groped for a flashlight.  

They only made it halfway up to her bedroom before Bellamy had her pinned to the wall, kissing down the side of her neck while the flashlight shone uselessly on the floor.  She had to push him off of her— using nearly all of her willpower— and drag him up the last few steps.  In her room, Clarke reluctantly let go of Bellamy to grab the matches.  The match lit with a hiss and the wicks flickered as they caught the flame.  Warm yellow light pushed the darkness back and the way Bellamy was looking at her— with awe and hunger in equal measure— sent a blush across her cheeks.

She padded across the room and ducked her head when he went to kiss her, instead focusing on slipping his buttons open one by one.  Each button revealed another slice of skin and she pressed a kiss to every newly bare inch, taking care to avoid the purple bruise just below his rib cage that served as an ugly reminder of how close she’d come to losing him completely.  Bellamy’s fingers flexed on her waist and then trailed up to trace the line of her dark purple bra, dipping into the valley between her breasts and up the other side to her shoulder.  He nudged the strap down and kissed the place where it had been, and then cupped her jaw in his hand and raised her face for a kiss.  Clarke brushed her tongue alongside his and worked Bellamy’s shirt off his shoulders before popping open the button on his jeans.

The jeans dropped to the floor and she palmed him through his boxer briefs, his breath hissing in her ear.  Then it was his turn to peel her leggings down, and when she stepped out of them she placed a hand on his shoulder, urging him to sit on the edge of the bed.  Bellamy complied and she slotted herself between his knees, her hands knotting in his curls. He mouthed at her skin just beneath her bra, one hand kneading her breast and teasing her nipple and the other slowly dragging her panties to her knees.  Clarke let them drop and her head fell back as he slid his hand up her inner thigh, stopping just before the place she was aching for him.  She moaned and widened her stance, and he grinned against the soft curve of her stomach. Clarke tugged impatiently on his hair and then his fingers were parting her folds, slipping through them with ease.  He touched her clit lightly— too lightly— and then moved his finger to her entrance, easing it inside of her with deliberate pressure.

Clarke gasped and he added another finger, stretching her walls just slightly and returning his thumb to her clit.  Bellamy nipped at her hipbone and started drawing careful circles with his thumb, the pressure increasing steadily until she was dripping with need as he rocked his fingers inside of her.  Candles flickered and her eyelids closed of their own accord, the sensations washing over her until she couldn’t feel anything but his fingers and his teeth scraping across the lace of her bra.  She fumbled with the hooks behind her back until the bra loosened, and when she tossed it to the floor Bellamy pressed down on her clit and sucked her nipple into his hot, wet mouth.

That was all it took to unwind the coil of need low in her belly, and Clarke’s legs started to tremble with the force of her peak.  Bellamy wrapped his arm around her waist to keep her from collapsing, and when her muscles finally solidified she climbed into his lap and pinned her knees on either side of his hips.  She looked at him, his dark eyes still hungry, and reached down to  shove his underwear off and palm him again.  His eyes fluttered shut at her touch and he whispered  _ please _ , broken and needy, so she pulled herself away and ran to the bathroom to rummage for a condom.  Then she was back in his arms, helping him roll on the condom, and then she lowered herself down, her legs wrapped around his waist and his feet planted firmly on the floor.

She didn’t have much leverage this way but it let her keep her chest pressed against him and look him in the eye as he thrusted.  His cock was buried inside of her and her clit ground against his pubic bone with each stroke, her breasts bouncing wildly as she hung on. She kissed him, harsh and deep, and then tipped her head back so she could watch him.  He was beautiful, his eyes hooded and his skin warm and tawny, and then suddenly it was almost too much.  His scent invaded her and she dropped her head to his shoulder, kissing his salty skin and giving herself over to the sensations.

Bellamy’s thrusts started to become uneven and he swelled even harder inside of her, so Clarke pinned her hand between them and rubbed her clit until her walls clenched down on him and her muscles roiled with waves of pleasure.  She was still catching her breath when he came, spurting hot and hard inside of her and Clarke kissed him again, needing to have every single part of him touch her as he fell apart.

He rested his forehead against hers and Clarke breathed him in, wondering if it had felt the same for him, like it was a missing puzzle piece that brought the picture into focus.  His palm cupped her cheek and he kissed her again, slower this time, and then Bellamy helped her off of him so he could throw away the condom.  Clarke sprawled on her stomach underneath the covers and when he returned Bellamy brushed her hair off her shoulder so he could kiss up the curve of her spine.  He rolled to his back and she draped herself over him, her head pillowed on the soft space between his shoulder and his chest.

Bellamy ran his fingers through her hair, pressing an absent-minded kiss to the crown of her head, and suddenly an entire future unfolded in front of her— lazy sunday mornings in bed, cookouts with their friends on her porch while a soft summer breeze blew in off the bay, and nights like this, wrapped in each other’s warmth while the surf pounded the shore.  It seemed so real, so tangible, she could almost touch it, and she wanted it with an intensity that both surprised and scared her.  But then as swiftly as it came that future faded away, replaced with the horrible certainty that that wasn’t the life he wanted.  Bellamy had done everything in his power to escape from Arkadia and as soon as he was sure his sister was safe, he’d be gone.  She laced her fingers with his and watched the light play across his skin before kissing each one of his battered and scraped knuckles.  His heartbeat pounded underneath her ear and she forced herself to let go of what she wanted and just enjoy the moment.  

Several minutes passed, punctuated only by lazy kisses that stretched on and on and on, both of them unwilling to be the one to break their connection.  Clarke was walking her fingers up his chest when his breathing changed.  He went from calm and collected to radiating anxiety in the space of a few heartbeats, and Clarke propped herself up on her elbow to look at him.  “She’s going to be okay,” Clarke soothed.  “I promise.”

“What if— but what if she—”

“She’s innocent,” Clarke said firmly, and she hoped her gut wasn't lying to her, because the thought of breaking his heart threatened to break her own.  “We’ll prove it.  I promise.”

Bellamy trailed a finger along her jaw and smiled sadly.  “I just feel bad being this happy when O’s in danger.”

Clarke kissed his forehead, right where his brow crinkled with worry.  “There’s nothing we can do tonight— nothing anyone can do.  The hurricane has us stuck on the island until tomorrow at the earliest, so we should get some sleep.  We’ll start again in the morning.”

He looked at her, his gaze unreadable, and then he drew her down for one last languid kiss.  Her heart twisted painfully but she made herself smile back, and then she blew out the last remaining candle.  Darkness returned, and Bellamy curled himself around her with his arm secured around her waist, kissing the nape of her neck.

Tomorrow they’d return to the fight, but that night they just held each other until sleep claimed them both.

* * *

 

 

Clarke rolled over and reached out blindly, but the other side of the bed was empty.  She tried not to let her heart fall because Bellamy was clearly an early riser, but she’d been looking forward to burying her nose in the crook of his neck and feeling the weight of his arm around her, lazy kisses keeping either of them from leaving the cocoon of her bed for awhile.  But the investigation beckoned, and she knew they couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

She stood up and searched for his shirt because maybe it was cliche, but she wanted to keep him close in whatever way she could for however long she had him.  Clarke checked both sides of the bed, but his clothes were gone.  Which made sense, she supposed, if he was downstairs cooking breakfast like yesterday.  Still, her heart sank just a little lower.

But she padded down the stairs and found a cold, empty kitchen.  Bellamy was nowhere to be found, and nerves started to set in.   _ Emerson’s locked up _ , she reminded herself.   _ He can’t hurt anyone _ .  She picked up her phone from the kitchen counter to call the station to see if he’d gone in for some reason, but when she flicked her thumb across the screen her phone opened to a set of texts Roan sent just fifteen minutes ago. 

 

_ Roan Glazer _

_ 7:25am _

_ Octavia Blake in custody. _

 

_ Roan Glazer _

_ 7:26am _

_ She confessed. _

 

Clarke stared at the screen and sank down on a chair, disbelieving.  Her eyes fell on the picture from the ferry landing, sitting out next to an old case file of Pike’s that she must have left open last night.  Something stirred deep in her memory as she looked at it, and when she saw the name and address in the file her body started moving before her brain could catch up.

She ran to the front door and threw it open.  Bellamy’s car was gone and her holster hung empty from the hook near the door.

And then everything fell into place.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, the official reveal is in the next chapter, so get your guesses as to the murderer in now.


	8. Eight

 

Clarke threw her black leather jacket on over her pajamas and shoved her feet into her shoes as fast as she could.  She ran to her car and tried her radio, but all she got in response was bursts of static.  Either everyone was out on a call or the storm had knocked out the radio tower too.  She dialed the station’s number and hit speakerphone as soon as it started to ring, but it just rang and rang with no answer.  Her gut churned as she hung up.  She took two more precious seconds to pull up another number and jammed the key into the ignition.

“Clarke?”  She could barely hear Monty’s voice over the rain hitting the roof of her car and she threw it into reverse, barreling back out of her driveway.  “What’s going on?”

“I need you to break the law for me.”

“What?”

“The State Bureau of Investigation.  I need you to hack them and find out if they were paying Pike.”

“Clarke, what’s going on?”

Clarke kept her eyes on the road, swerving to avoid a large branch lying across her lane.  “Can you do it?” she begged, and pressed the gas pedal down as far as she dared.  “If someone was being paid by the state but like, secretly, can you find the record?”

“It depends on the type of—”

“Can you do it or not?” she snapped.  “This is an emergency.”

“Clarke, are you—”

“I’m fine,” she cut him off.  “But I need you to look up Pike.  I think he was being paid by the state, and I need to know why.  Right now.”

Seconds ticked past and her pulse raced.  “Found it,” he said finally.  “He’s part of a...um, okay, I don’t know what this all means..”

“Just tell me what it says," she pleaded. Her tires skidded as she took a turn too fast, but she had to get there in time.

“It’s listed as a drug investigation being conducted by Professional Standards.  Does that mean anything to you?”

“Corruption.  Misuse of public funds, crooked politicians; that sort of shit.”

“Okay, and it says it's a John Doe investigation and it looks...pretty top secret.  Can you tell me what’s going on?  And more importantly, am I going to be arrested for this?”

“I’ll tell them you were acting as an agent of the police— if there’s any heat to take, it’ll be on me, I promise.  But I need you to do me one more favor,” she said, slowing her car to a crawl.  Up ahead she could see the low roofs of the trailer park, and she set the emergency brake.

“What’s that?”

“Call Wells and get Octavia a lawyer.  She just confessed to a crime she didn’t commit,” Clarke said and hung up.  

She switched her phone to silent and bent double as she ran through the brush.  The rain was slowing as the hurricane moved farther out to sea, the clouds thinning slightly.  Mrs. Carter’s tidy doublewide sat to her left, battened down for the storm, and to her right was an empty trailer, surrounded by overgrown weeds and bushes. Clarke wished she had her gun on her, but the element of surprise would have to be enough.

If she wasn’t too late, of course.

She heard shouting when she reached the back corner of the trailer, and a loud noise--like a body hitting a wall, or worse-- sent a spike of fear through her chest and got her moving even faster.

The door hung crooked on its hinges, flapping in the wind.  She heard another shout and took the three steps in one giant leap, bursting into the dank trailer.  “Arkadia Police,” she shouted. 

“Confess,” Bellamy yelled at the same time, and her eyes adjusted to the gloom.  He was standing over a prone Dax, gun drawn. Bellamy’s eyes flickered towards her for a heartbeat.

That split second was all the distraction Dax needed, and he swung his leg into Bellamy’s knee.

Caught unprepared, Bellamy went sprawling and the gun skittered across the peeling linoleum floor.  Dax was on him in less than a second, pinning Bellamy’s shoulders to the floor.  She ran towards them but Dax picked up a shattered chair leg and swung it into her stomach.

It knocked the wind out of her and she fell, kicking out blindly until her foot hit the soft flesh of his groin.  Bellamy rolled Dax to the side and she tried to scramble for the gun only for Dax to break free from Bellamy’s hold by slamming his skull back into Bellamy’s face.  Dax threw her against the wall of the trailer and her head hit the faux wood paneling. The bruise on her temple from Emerson took the brunt of the hit and a sharp, piercing pain drove through her skull.  Bellamy screamed her name in a horrible echo of the other night and her vision wavered as she tried to stand.  She fell, this time from dizziness, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Bellamy rushing forward.  Dax beat him to the gun and she didn’t have time to think, only react when he kicked Bellamy in the chin and cocked the hammer back.

Clarke dove for Dax’s knees and the gun went off.  For a split second she couldn’t hear anything except the aftermath of the explosion ringing in her ears.  The silence that followed terrified her, but then Bellamy blurred past, tackling Dax again.  He slammed Dax’s wrist down, over and over, until the gun clattered to the floor.  Clarke grabbed it and stood, aiming it with steady hands.

“Arkadia Police,” she said again, pointing the gun at Dax’s head.  Bellamy reared back and punched him.  “Bellamy, it’s over,” she said, but he kept punching, fist meeting bone with a sickening crunch.  “Bellamy, it’s  _ over _ ,” she shouted again, and her voice finally broke through his haze.

He sat back, blood running down his chin and a dark red welt his cheek.  Slowly, Bellamy stood and Dax raised his hands over his head, still lying on his back.  Clarke looked at Bellamy carefully, and when she saw that his eyes were clear and sharp she unhooked the handcuffs and passed them over.

Bellamy flipped Dax over and wrenched his arms back.  The handcuffs locked with a satisfying click, and she let out a long exhale.  She switched the safety back on and tucked the gun into the back of her waistband.  “Dax Engelman, you’re under arrest for the murder of Charles Pike,” she began.

* * *

 

Clarke was clutching an ice pack to the side of her head when Roan and Octavia walked into the station, Wells close on their heels.  Emori was crouched in front of Bellamy, dabbing at the cuts on his face and hands while he winced.  Indra was in the chair next to him, waiting her turn with a fat lip and a nasty bruise underneath her eye.

Bellamy bolted from the chair at the sight of his sister and after a second of hesitation, she let him pull her into a fierce hug.  “It’s okay,” he murmured, and Clarke could hear Octavia whispering  _ I’m sorry  _ over and over again.

Wells stopped in front of Clarke and she too stood and wrapped her arms around his waist.  “Thank you,” she said, and Roan sank into the chair in front of Pike’s empty desk.

Roan kicked his muddy boots up onto the desk and crossed his legs at the ankles.  “So is someone going to tell me what the fuck happened, or are we all just going to hug for the rest of the day?”

Bellamy scowled at him over Octavia’s shoulder, but Clarke cut him off before he could say anything.  “I’ll start,” she said and sat back down.  Her head throbbed with every movement and the lights in the station felt too bright, but she rested her elbow on Monroe’s desk and began.

“Over the winter, Pike found an abandoned boat out near Smuggler’s Cove.  We all figured it was just kids swiping it from from a summer rental, but no one ever reported it stolen.”

“He called an old army buddy at the State Bureau,” Wells said, taking over for the moment.  “He wondered if Arkadia might be being used as a conduit for drugs coming up from Florida.  Turns out, he’d stumbled on something a lot bigger, because his friend had a task force investigating the link between a recent influx of drugs in the state and public corruption.  Diana Sydney and Kevin Shumway were tangled up in it— she would have her people look the other way when it came to big shipments in exchange for the cartel to set up the occasional fall guy.  She got to make a name for herself by being tough on crime, and she and Shumway received more than enough in laundered donations to launch her campaign for governor.  But until the task force had solid evidence it had to be done in total secrecy.  Pike couldn’t even tell Clarke, and none of us at the DA’s office knew until this morning when the arrests happened.”  

“Turns out, Arkadia wasn’t officially part of the pipeline,” Clarke explained.  “But they were using the chain of uninhabited islands just north of here to unload the cargo.  Someone being paid by Sydney and Shumway— like Tristan— would pick it up and get it to their distributors on the mainland.  As far as we can tell, the abandoned boat was just a coincidence— someone working for the cartel got lost, or maybe decided to run.  But Pike must have spooked them, because Shumway decided to hire Dax to take him out.  Pike was the one who arrested him nine years ago for a bar fight that put the other guy in a coma.  He was paroled last week, and it looks like they thought that if we didn’t buy the cover story, we’d assume it was revenge for the arrest.  Once Dax figured  _ that _ out, he couldn’t spill the story fast enough.  He stole Indra’s machete and went to Pike’s place, saying he wanted to talk to him about the terms of his parole.  They fought, and Pike lost.”

“So Dax framed Octavia?” Monty asked.  Miller was next to him, his arm in a sling and he shifted the strap uncomfortably while Monty drew comforting circles around his back.  

“No.  He was framing me,” Indra interjected.  

Clarke nodded.  “According to the lead investigator, he knew someone from Sydney’s camp was on to him, so Pike may have been trying to warn Indra when he called earlier this week.”

“I was out for a walk that night,” Octavia said from where she was perched on a desk next to Indra.  “I went past his place, and saw that the door was open, and when I went in and found him like that— I panicked.”

“You thought I’d done it,” Indra said matter-of-factly, and Octavia nodded.

“The machete was still in his chest, and I pulled it out, and—”

“— I showed up,” Miller finished.

“Yeah.  And I freaked.  I’m sorry, I just couldn’t lose someone else,” Octavia said, tears welling in her eyes.  Indra patted her knee in an uncharacteristically gentle way and Octavia rested her small hand on top of Indra’s while Bellamy draped his arm over her shoulders.  “I asked Jasper to use his boat, and called Luna to see if one of her friends could pick me up at the old docks south of Polis.  I checked into a shitty motel in the middle of nowhere and hoped you guys would be too busy looking for me to look into her.”

“But I overheard Nathan telling Monty talking about the case, and I thought if I confessed, you’d stop looking for her,” Indra explained.

“And when I found out Indra had been arrested, I thought if I turned myself in, they’d have to let her go,” Octavia said.

“The task force moved on Shumway and Sydney this morning, but they couldn’t reach out to Arkadia PD for fear that it would blow their cover before they were ready, even though they suspected his death had something to do with their investigation,” Wells finished.  “Nygel was taken into custody near the Virginia border.  It seems she worked as a lookout for the smuggling ring, and the tip about Indra and Pike fighting was supposed to direct you away from their activities.”

Miller cleared his throat.  “And Mary Pike came in this morning to confess that she’d lied about not seeing Pike— she came to the island on Tuesday to see if they could bury the hatchet.  When she found out he’d been murdered and she realized she left her scarf at his house, she panicked and lied about seeing him.  And then she panicked about panicking, so there you have it.”

Roan cocked his head to the side, his long hair swinging past his shoulder.  “That explains the murder.  But is anyone going to explain why you three look like you went ten rounds with Mike Tyson?” he asked, gesturing to Harper, Miller, and Indra.

“Emerson,” Harper supplied.  She had an ice pack to her jaw and a shiner developing on her left eye.  “When the power went out he claimed he needed the bathroom and got loose.”

“And I helped subdue him,” Indra added grimly.

Roan laced his fingers together and rested them on his stomach.  “That’s a lot of action for a sleepy little island, isn’t it?”

“More than you know,” Clarke replied drily.  “Thanks for bringing Octavia home,” she added.  Bellamy tipped his chin in thanks and Clarke had to fight a smile.

“Then if it’s all right with you, I’ll take the dirtbags back to the mainland,” Roan said.  “Let you guys get back to being boring.”

Clarke sighed, because she wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep for fifteen hours, preferably with Bellamy beside her.  Bellamy walked over to her and held out his hand.  “Let’s go home,” he said, and she accepted it, a slow smile spreading across her face.

It was over, and they were safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well? How did your theories hold up? I'm dying to know.


	9. Epilogue

“Clarke? Are you in the kitchen?”  Raven’s voice rang through the house.  

“Yeah, in here,” Clarke yelled back.  She shut the fridge with her hip and smiled at Roan and Raven as they walked in.  “Just getting the burgers ready.”

“God, it’s only May and it’s already hotter than hell,” Raven griped.  “But we brought some booze,” Raven announced and set the case of beer on Clarke’s counter.

“Excellent, thanks.  Miller and Monty are already out on the porch with Gina and Luna.”

Roan pulled a beer out and handed one to Clarke before helping himself, and Raven brushed a kiss to her cheek as they walked out. 

Clarke had just set the potato salad on the counter when Octavia walked in through the door from the porch.  “Need a hand?” she offered, and Lincoln materialized behind her with a bag of tortilla chips.

“Yeah, actually— could you guys take the potato salad out and get the grill started?”  Clarke said, and started pressing the ground beef into thick pink circles between her palms.  Octavia nodded and slid the door shut behind her, cutting off a loud burst of laughter from the people already enjoying the evening breeze.  Lincoln poured the chips into a bowl he’d pulled out of her cabinet.

“I heard from Wells that Sydney’s expected to plead out,” Clarke said.

“Yeah, he called to tell me earlier today,” Lincoln said.  “I’m just glad it’s almost over.”  Lincoln patted her shoulder and followed Octavia out to the porch.  Lincoln had always been quiet before, but ever since returning from prison he was even quieter.  Clarke ached for him, but as she watched Octavia kiss his cheek while Gina and Luna buried him in hugs, she had hope that somehow, he’d heal.

She smiled to herself, and then a set of arms slipped around her waist.  She startled and Bellamy chuckled into her hair, kissing the top of her head.  “One day I’m going to seriously injure you,” she grumbled.  “Do you really have to be that quiet?”

“You’re just not paying attention,” he scolded, his arms still wrapped around her.

“How was the historical society today?” she asked, and he let go of her to grab the veggie burgers for Octavia and Luna.

“Really dusty,” he replied.  His voice was muffled thanks to his head being in the fridge, and when he straightened up he had the ketchup and mustard balanced in his hands.  “Did you know that Arkadia used to be a drop off point for smugglers?”

Clarke raised her eyebrows.  “No, really?” she said sarcastically.

Bellamy laughed.  “No, I meant in the 1920s.  They used the Smuggler’s Cove to store moonshine and ship it to the mainland. That’s how it got it’s name, which...makes a lot of sense and makes me feel a little stupid for not realizing it until today.”

“Wait, really?  I don’t remember seeing anything on that in the historical society.”

“Apparently, Vera didn’t want to glamorize crime, but I figured it might be a good way to get some tourists in through the door.  Everyone loves Prohibition, after all.”

“That sounds really interesting,” she said, and he leaned down meet her lips in a quick kiss.  “Maybe even worth the pay cut?”

“You’re worth the pay cut,” he said, and kissed her once more.  Clarke set the last burger down on the tray and Bellamy slid the door open.  “Ready?” he asked, his hair catching the soft yellow haze of the sun.

“Ready,” she confirmed, and followed him outside to join their friends.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks! Thanks for reading!


End file.
